Walk Not Alone
by L. Mouse
Summary: Complete! Sequel to Swordsmen. Ruroken Highlander crossover. Note spoilers for the Chiyoko arc in A Life Lived
1. Chapter 1

Walk Not Alone

Chapter One

---------------------

Author's Notes:

The reason that I'm posting this is because people are whining (VBG) about the ending to _Swordsmen_ and I thought I'd answer a few things about the outcome of various loose ends with the first chapter of _Walk_. Granted, this is also going to be a cliffhanger, and I absolutely cannot finish it for months, so you may wish to wait. Or not. Up to you.

You do want to read Swordsmen first. It is, of course, a crossover with RuroKen and Highlander, with the premise of, "What if Soujiro and Kenshin were Immortals?" _Swordsmen _was set early in the Highlander series -- immediately before the episode _The Darkness_. This story is set _present day_ (actually, 2007, since I'm not expecting to finish it until late winter/early spring).

It's also set in an alternate universe where there was no demon, MacLeod never cut his ponytail off (SOB!) and Richie never died. Because Richie dying really pissed me off. At some point, the whole gang moved back to Seacouver because I'm lazy and I don't want to do the research to set this in Paris; a fictional town is _so _much easier to work with.

(Please also note that I will be posting some older stories under this handle. They're already written, just need cleaning up. So there will be some other stuff appearing here that I'm not actually writing right now. As of now, until I get back on track with a few things, I'm taking a hiatus from fanfic. Sorry guys. But after twenty years of writing fic -- it's a pretty safe bet that I WILL be back. LOL. And this is an incentive to get caught up on all my other obligations.)

---------------------

"So kid," Amanda said, conversationally, as a very dirty Richie entered the dojo, "Is that a new fashion statement?"

"Hah, hah, very funny," Richie grumbled, limping across the dojo with Amanda trailing curiously after him. Fortunately, it was late and nobody was around to see him enter except Amanda.

"Seriously. Whose head did you take?"

Richie glanced down at himself, and realized it was probably pretty obvious that he'd been on the surviving end of a Quickening. His jeans were in tatters, he had blood on his shirt that wasn't entirely his, and he was leaving the aroma of sweat, ozone and smoke in his wake. "Some bastard on the way home. He hit me with his truck -- deliberately -- we took it to an alley nearby. No witnesses."

"You okay?" Amanda asked, sounding truly concerned.

Richie gave her a dark look. "I think I'll live. I'm going to need a new bike, mine's totaled. I had to walk home."

"Who was he?"

The far younger Immortal shrugged. "I didn't get a name. I didn't get a chance. Some blond guy with a bunch of tattoos. He wasn't very old; his sword skills were for crap and he wouldn't have survived very longer with that kind of an attitude. You know anyone around here with bunches of tats, blond hair and an old white pickup?"

"No, doesn't ring a bell."

Richie ran a hand over his close-cropped curly hair and added, "He just came at me swinging, you know? Fight lasted all of three seconds. I tripped him and took his head before he could get up. Real fucktard. He probably thought I would be an easy mark because I was half his size."

Amanda rolled her eyes at that. Richie had been an Immortal for all of thirteen years; with any luck, given his skills with a sword, he'd still be around in another thousand. She hoped he would be; she rather liked the kid.

_He's had a good teacher for the sword skills_, Amanda thought, as Richie limped past her and headed for the elevator. He paused, and asked, "Who's upstairs?"

"Mac, Joe, and Methos. Why?"

"Oh, good. Maybe one of them can tell me who'n the hell I just killed." He inserted his key in the elevator and the elevator car rumbled upwards and out of sight.

Amanda considered following him -- Joe, Methos, Richie, and Duncan all in the same room promised some fun -- but decided to take a shower first, given that the sweat from her workout was sticking her shirt to her back in a most uncomfortable way and she probably smelled like a horse. She padded to MacLeod's office, reached around the corner for her gym bag, and was just straightening up when a buzz from outside warned her that they had a visitor.

Red hair walked past the window, catching the light from inside. _Short _red hair. A woman?

The Immortal paused at outside for a good long moment, then entered with slow, cautious steps. Bells jingled, and she -- no, _he _-- turned the corner and stopped just inside the double doors leading into the dojo's main room.

He was a shrimp of a guy, making Richie's earlier griping about being on the small side seem downright ridiculous in comparison. If the man was five feet tall, Amanda would be surprised. And he was skinny, though it was a wiry-ropy-muscled-incredibly-fit sort of skinny, not a little-weakling skinny. And she noted, with appreciation, that he was drop-dead gorgeous. Also, to her relief, he was also holding his hands out in the open, pointedly, resting at his side.

_Utterly stunning man, and I look like an urchin. _Amanda was suddenly acutely aware that she was in her work-out clothes, hair and t-shirt sweaty, no makeup, and smelling like a locker room. _Great first impression. I would have much preferred to have been wearing something slinky and rowwwwr when meeting this guy for the first time. Because, really, how many guys are _that _handsome? _

More seriously, she thought, _Is he armed? Yes, I think so._ Amanda noted he stood a little too straight, almost military in his posture, but one shoulder was subtly lower than the other. _Sword on his back, under his coat. He'll draw with his right hand._

He had high, sharp cheekbones, startling violet eyes, and red hair that looked natural for all its improbable intensity. Yeah, he was really, really attractive, even if he did have a noticeable cross-shaped scar on one cheek. He moved with easy, athletic grace, like a gymnast. _Or a very well trained and extremely fit fighter._

_A handsome fighter_, the gutter part of Amanda's mind chimed in helpfully.

And he carried himself with _presence_ -- despite his lack of height, this was a man who could walk into a room and _own _it. _Ki_, Amanda thought, _He's got a ki like I've never felt before_. _He must be very old._

He was cute enough to make her reconsider her current relationship with MacLeod, actually. It wouldn't be the first time she'd dumped Mac for someone else for a few decades. Mac would get over it, eventually ... hell, he probably expected it.

The stranger reached up, brushed long red bangs from his eyes, she realized to her disappointment that he was wearing a wedding ring.

"Good evening," the man said, and she blinked a bit at his accent. "My name is Kenshin Himura."

"Amanda -- ah, hello." She regarded him with curiosity. _Kenshin Himura _sounded Japanese, and so did the accent, though she wasn't sure where the hair and eyes came from if that was the case.

The man bowed his head gravely, clinching his origins. He asked somewhat hesitantly, "Is Duncan MacLeod here?"

"Yeah, upstairs. Umm, are you guys friends?"

"Aa. Maybe." Kenshin said. He paused, and asked, in what sounded like a hopeful tone of voice, "Is Tessa around? It may be best if I talk to her first, that it would. MacLeod was mad at me, last time we spoke, years ago. I'd like to avoid a fight if I could."

There was a twinkle of amusement in the man's eyes, but Amanda felt like she'd been gut punched. "Oh."

The humor vanished, instantly. Kenshin looked her over, then glanced at the elevator, then back at her. Very quietly, he said, "Did something happen?"

"Yeah. Tessa's been dead thirteen years."

Kenshin blinked, and said with honest sorrow, "I never knew. Last I saw her, she was talking about the wedding."

"Never happened." Amanda said, somewhat roughly. Not that she'd known Tessa, but she knew that Mac still mourned her. It was a sensitive subject. She also figured the guy ought to know, "Umm. I'm his girlfriend."

"I see." Those violet eyes regarded her levelly, measuringly. She couldn't tell what he was thinking; she realized the man made her a little nervous. He asked politely, "Have you known him long, then?"

"A few hundred years. Umm, take the stairs up." She waved at the door. "I'll be up in a bit, once I get cleaned up."

------------------------

MacLeod felt the buzz, assumed _Amanda _for a second, then changed his mind when someone politely knocked on the door. Amanda wouldn't knock. Even if the door was _locked _Amanda didn't knock.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Joe said, apparently having correctly inferred by the alert looks of all three Immortals that there was a fourth Immortal at the door.

Richie stood up from the couch, where he'd been balancing an ice pack on his knee. The swelling was rapidly going down and he wasn't limping anymore. Methos had his sheathed broadsword in one hand, and was eying the elevator with interest. _Wary old man_, MacLeod thought, with amusement. Methos really did prefer to avoid other Immortals.

"Not expecting anyone, no," MacLeod said, opening the door. He was definitely _not _expecting the person on the other side -- he hadn't heard a thing from him for years. "Ken." MacLeod said, dumbfounded. "This is a surprise."

Kenshin Himura, improbably a hundred and fifty-eight year old samurai, raised one red eyebrow at MacLeod. "May I enter?"

"Oh. Yeah. Come on in." MacLeod stepped aside. He turned to his friends. Richie knew Kenshin -- though Kenshin was giving him an appraising look; Richie had changed quite a bit in the last thirteen years, starting with dying. "Joe, Adam, this is Kenshin. He's one of the good guys. Kenshin, this is Adam Pierson and Joe Dawson."

Kenshin's gaze was now focused on Methos. Methos had gone quite pale; Kenshin's eyes were enormous, widened in shock beneath the fiery fall of his bangs.

"_You_." Methos growled.

In Japanese -- MacLeod was not surprised that Kenshin couldn't manage English, given the look on his face and the fact that he suspected Kenshin still thought in Japanese then translated to English -- Kenshin said, "_Much _is suddenly explained to this one."

"Uh, Adam? Do you know Kenshin?" Richie said, sounding somewhat alarmed. MacLeod had already come to that conclusion, and gone well past it -- they not only knew each other, they were _not _friends, and by the look on his face Methos was probably contemplating a challenge in the middle of MacLeod's flat.

Methos didn't, in MacLeod's experience, hold many grudges. And Kenshin was, while occasionally maddening in his naiveté and definitely a fool, _not _the sort who generally inspired the level of rage that had lit in Methos's eyes.

"I'm going to _kill _him." Methos took a step towards Kenshin.

Kenshin stood with great dignity in one place, expression closed off, utterly unmoving. He said nothing, did nothing, had no reaction. His eyes were closed, and he was so still that he didn't even seem to be breathing. Holding his breath, MacLeod realized.

Methos advanced, snicking sword from sheath. "_Battousai_."

Well, that one word explained a bit.

"Adam!" MacLeod said, with some alarm.

He was ignored -- Methos drew his sword back for a murderous blow. And Kenshin _disappeared _somehow, and then with a tangle of blows and a startled grunt from the older Immortal, Methos hit the ground next to the elevator. _Hard_. Kenshin stood over him, his _sakabatou_ in one hand, the sharp side pressed against Adam's throat.

Now it was MacLeod's turn to hold his breath. Behind him, he heard Joe gasp, and Richie swear softly.

Kenshin's eyes were gleaming gold. "Dr. Piersen, I've killed you twice. Don't push me. The third time might be permanent."

That voice ... MacLeod felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. That was _not _Kenshin's voice, and those deadly killer's eyes were not Kenshin's either. Not the Kenshin he remembered from thirteen years before.

Kenshin was breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling. With cold efficiency, he stepped back and allowed Methos to get up.

Methos scrambled to his feet, clutching his throat. He clapped a hand over a thin stream of blood and stared, "Why didn't you kill me, _Battousai_?"

The samurai put his sword away, and said shortly, "I'm _not _the _Battousai _anymore."

"Ah," Methos swallowed and eyed Kenshin warily. Kenshin met his gaze with eyes that were still amber and gold with deadly focus.

"Adam, I take it you know Kenshin?" Joe said, carefully. He stepped forward, putting himself between the two -- something that MacLeod wouldn't have exactly recommended, but on the other hand, Methos wasn't going to hurt Joe and Kenshin wasn't likely to hurt _anyone_ without a great deal of provocation. Not that Joe knew that about Kenshin's oath never to kill again. Or, considering this was Joe, maybe he _did _know.

"Yes." Methos growled, grabbed his sword back up off the floor, and headed out the door. MacLeod let him go; he judged getting an explanation for their behavior was going to be difficult with Kenshin and Methos in the room together. "Joe. Want to go after him?"

"Yeah, that's a good idea," Joe said. "He's probably going to go home and get drunk." He paused, and added to Kenshin, "Thank you, Mister Himura, for not killing him."

"I don't kill." Kenshin said, in clipped, angry tones, still in Japanese despite Joe's English. Joe didn't understand Japanese, and his expression was a bit confused.

"Go on. He won't kill anyone." MacLeod waived Joe out the door.

"Woah," Richie said, after the door had banged shut after Joe's exit. "Adam's ticked."

MacLeod regarded Kenshin with an intense frown. "So care to explain why one of my best friends wants to kill you and the feeling appears to be mutual?"

"I must apologize, Mister MacLeod," Kenshin said, looking up at him. The gold was slowly fading from Kenshin's eyes; he blinked twice and folded his arms and said. "Truly, I would not have come. If I had known Adam Pierson was here, I would never have come. And I do not wish him dead."

Kenshin sighed, and added with softer tones to his voice, "Until just now, I did not know he was even one of us, though it explains a great deal. I was _certain _I had killed him the first time. It is probably fortunate that I didn't behead him."

"What happened?" MacLeod said, with no small amount of curiosity.

Kenshin grimaced at old, painful memories that he'd obviously rather not be talking about. "It was a very long time ago. I killed his sons; he later murdered my commanding officer -- a man I respected. He tortured him to make him talk, to find me. Actually -- Dr. Pierson didn't kill him, _I _did. It was the only thing that could be done. He was in so much pain."

The red-haired man's eyes were suddenly very old and very weary. The amber rage was totally gone, replaced only by exhaustion.

The thing was, MacLeod wasn't exactly surprised by the revelation. And it didn't change how he felt about Methos, because, pretty much, nothing about Methos shocked him anymore. He swallowed, and said, "I'm sorry about your friend."

"We weren't friends." Kenshin's voice became clipped again with emotion. He was still speaking Japanese. "I had no friends. But we might have become friends after the Revolution. He was a good man."

"Why are you here, Kenshin?" MacLeod asked, finally, after a moment of silence between them. "I haven't seen or heard from you in thirteen years."

Kenshin finally switched back to English, with a glance at Richie that said he'd abruptly remembered that Mac spoke Japanese but Richie didn't. "I didn't exactly know where you were. I _tried _to track you down thirteen years ago, but you had left town."

MacLeod blinked. _That's right, the last time I saw him was a couple days before Tessa ... _He tried to remember for a moment why he'd been mad at Kenshin, and finally came up with, "Oh. About Soujiro."

"Aa."

"Look, Kenshin, you're a good guy. We'll just have to disagree with how to deal with bad guys ... I still think Soujiro's head needs to part ways with his shoulders. He's trouble." MacLeod said, sourly.

"Soujiro married Akane." Kenshin said, with a smile. He met MacLeod's gaze with a level gaze that made MacLeod want to squirm a bit. "About ten years ago. She's been sober for eleven years. They, umm, they're somewhat _dysfunctional _at times, as Atsuko would say, but they seem to work for each other. They adopted a child about eight years ago, and she's the reason why I'm here."

MacLeod blinked at that.

"I do not always agree with Soujiro-san, just as I do not agree with _you _MacLeod, but he is not an evil man. He has simply done evil things. As I have. And as you have." Kenshin looked up at MacLeod, his violet eyes gleaming. "He does less evil these days. That's Akane's doing, surprisingly. Soujiro feels a great responsibility to be a good example for her and for their daughter."

"So your niece actually turned out okay?" MacLeod was a little surprised at that.

"Soujiro eventually walked out on her," Kenshin said, with some amusement. He appeared to be relaxing a bit, and he smiled very briefly. "She pushed him too far and he left her. Soujiro has a very low tolerance for abusive behavior, and she was being ... verbally abusive whenever she got drunk or high." Kenshin shrugged, "A year later, she'd completely cleaned up her life -- which could not have been easy at all -- and they were engaged to be married. I am rather proud of her, that I am."

After a moment of silence, Kenshin said, "I'm proud of Soujiro, too. He does right by her, and by their daughter ..."

Kenshin's expression darkened. "MacLeod, that's why I'm here. Souji's and Akane's daughter is the reason."

"What is it, Ken?" MacLeod said, worried by the look on Kenshin's face.

"The daughter -- she's been kidnapped. She was simply seized off the street -- from her school bus stop. I've never met her, but Soujiro says Carrie's one of us and he's very worried. I was hoping you could help me track the man down. You've been around quite awhile, and you know people and have contacts in the western world that neither I nor Soujiro have."

"Isn't this really a job for the police?" MacLeod asked, somewhat uncomfortably. He didn't know what he could do to help with a child's kidnapping a thousand miles away in another country.

Kenshin shook his head. "Oh, the police have been called. But Mac, the kidnapper was one of us. And -- so is Miya. She won't be thirteen for another month, Mac, she's just a child who's been through hell already in her life, from what Souji says. Multiple foster homes by the time she was seven and Soujiro and Akane found her. I fear what another Immortal may do to her. I -- I thought I could trust you, given that you took on Richie as your apprentice when you could simply have slain him. You're an honorable man."

_Most likely, the kidnapper simply killed her, waited a bit, and then took her head off for an easy Quickening, _MacLeod thought, cynically. He said, with brutal honesty that he knew Kenshin could handle but which made _Richie _flinch, "Ken, she's most likely dead and probably within hours of being taken. With any luck, it was quick."

"She's alive," Kenshin said, his voice a hoarse, pained whisper. "I know that much. Soujiro got a call from her, last week. She's alive. The area code was from a cel phone in this region. And we _have _to get her back. That we do. Will you help me try to find her?"

"Sure. We'll help." _That _came from Richie, who gave MacLeod a dirty look because Mac was hesitating. "If that's okay with you, MacLeod."

MacLeod heard the chiding sarcasm in Richie's voice, and mentally sighed. Because, guaranteed, this was going to be a mess. He just had that sort of a feeling. "Yeah, sure, I'll help."


	2. Chapter 2

Walk Not Alone

-------------

Chapter 2

-------------

Author's Notes: Having come to the conclusion that I'd rather write than eat, I wrote this on lunch Wednesday. :-)

-------------

"I truly do not wish to cause trouble between you and your friend," Kenshin said, hands in his pockets. The little Immortal glanced up at MacLeod. The earlier rage was entirely gone from his eyes, replaced by the calm and peace that MacLeod remembered. He stood in MacLeod's kitchen, watching Mac make coffee.

It was just the two of them, for the moment -- Richie had headed downstairs to use the showers and clean up. Kenshin had eyed Richie with suspicion but had said nothing about his appearance, even though the young man had obviously been in a fight.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," MacLeod shook his head. "Adam and I have been through a lot worse things than my being friends with his, ah, mortal enemy. We owe each other a lot."

"Do you think he'll challenge me again?" Kenshin asked, with some concern. "I do not wish to fight him."

"I seriously doubt it." Mac said. He recalled that Kenshin had been pressing the _sharp _edge of the sword to Methos's throat, and wondered just how close a call Adam had experienced. Kenshin said he didn't kill, but he'd also been in a murderous rage just minutes before. "Adam's pretty smartKen. He's good about not starting fights he can't win. If this is the third time you've beaten him there probably won't be a chance for a fourth."

_And I'm amazed there was a second -- much less a third -- fight betweem the two. Methos is big on self preservation. Kenshin could kill him if he chose to and Methos wouldn't stand much of a chance against him._

Kenshin said, "I hope that is the case."

He sounded doubtful, which didn't reassure MacLeod much.

"So," MacLeod said, deliberately changing the subject, "I noticed the ring. I take it some lady got lucky?"

Kenshin pulled his hand out of his pocket and glanced at the simple gold band. "_I _am the fortunate one. It's been a little more than twelve years, that it has. I married Atsuko."

MacLeod grinned. "_Really_? I liked her."

"She's on assignment in the middle east right now," Kenshin said, quietly -- a little too quietly.

"She's military?" MacLeod blinked. He realized how little he knew about Kenshin, and his friend -- now his wife -- suddenly. It was unsettling. "I didn't realize."

"She's a photojournalist. They sent her to cover the war." Kenshin sighed, very heavily. "She's working right in the middle of the fighting."

"Dangerous work." MacLeod said, sympathetically. "You must be worried."

"Aa. I always worry." Kenshin met MacLeod's eyes. There was sadness there, but also calm acceptance. "And I would never ask her to stop. What she does makes a difference in the world. Both of us believe that."

MacLeod regarded him thoughtfully. "You really believe in making a difference in the world."

"Yes, I do." Kenshin's violet eyes met MacLeod's. Simple words, but the depth of Kenshin's belief shone clearly. "It's how I've lived my life for a very long time."

MacLeod shook his head. Kenshin's had this curiously innocent quality that got on his nerves at times. He said, with some snark in his voice, "Must get pretty frustrating at times."

"You do the same thing, do you not?" Kenshin said, lifting an eyebrow.

MacLeod thought about that, considered denying it, then shrugged. "Maybe."

Kenshin grinned. "You know that you do, Mister MacLeod. There's a boy downstairs right now who I bet would agree."

Now the man was _teasing _him. MacLeod frowned at him, though. "I seem to remember we had a few discussions about the whole 'Mister' thing. Call me Mac, or Duncan. And Richie's in his thirties. Not so much a boy anymore."

Kenshin sighed, "Mac. It is habit. And Richie wasn't a child from the day he was born, not that one."

There was something in Kenshin's eyes that made MacLeod take sudden notice. Suspiciously, and with some hostility, he said, "What do you know about Richie?"

Kenshin shrugged. "I may have known him in another life, a long time ago. He reminds me of a friend from the past, is all. I am not certain, and I will probably never know for sure. It is just a feeling that I have known his soul before."

At that moment, the elevator mechanism rumbled loudly, both of them felt the buzz of two Immortals, and the elevator appeared with Richie, Amanda, and Joe in it.

"How's Adam?" MacLeod asked.

"Drunk." Joe confirmed their earlier speculation. He eyed Kenshin with interest.

Kenshin's eyes flicked to Joe's wrist, settled on the tattoo, and then surveyed Joe quickly. MacLeod was reasonably sure that Kenshin had noted not only Joe's artificial legs and his occupation, but also the gun under his arm. Kenshin said, in a flat tone of voice, "You're a Watcher."

"He's also a friend," MacLeod said, mildly.

"Yes." Joe said, sounding somewhat uncomfortable under Kenshin's suspicious gaze. "And Mister Himura, I know you know about us."

"I have, for about ninety years," Kenshin said, words deceptively mildly. MacLeod winced at the menace lurking in that velvet voice. "I don't like spies."

Joe shrugged, and said to MacLeod, "I gave Adam Kenshin's file. I told him to read it. It's remarkably, umm, benevolent, for at least as long as we've been tracking him, which is a little over a decade -- he's known about us longer than we've known about him! Have you _ever _taken a head, Himura?"

Kenshin frowned. "No. MacLeod, you're friends with this man?"

"Joe's cool, Kenshin," That came from Richie, before MacLeod had a chance to respond. Richie rested a hand on Joe's shoulder. "I trust him."

"Mm." Kenshin frowned. He seemed to be thinking, and he shot a few quick glances in Richie's direction.

"Boring file, mostly," Joe said, with a twinkle in his eyes. "The most interesting things Kenshin has done happened before he died the first time. As Immortals go, he's rather low priority -- I think his Watcher's bored to tears."

"And this is a good thing, that it is," Kenshin said, with feeling.

At that moment, Kenshin's cel phone rang. He glanced at it, and said, "My apologies. I need to take this call. If you'll excuse me ..." He answered the phone, "Moshimoshi, Souji-san ... aa ... MacLeod's ... aa, he'll help." That was said with a glance at MacLeod.

Kenshin then reached into the pocket of his coat, produced a PDA with Asian characters on the keys, and said, "Go ahead ..." he typed quickly as Soujiro dictated something to him. When he was done, he said, "Thanks, Soujiro ... I'll meet you there."

"Soujiro's here in town?" MacLeod said, with some wariness.

"Yeah, he just got in." Kenshin snapped the cel phone shut and slid it into his pocket. "He's meeting me for dinner. Will you come with me? I promise, Soujiro's not a threat to anyone these days. And your friends should come too."

MacLeod hesitated. Nodded, briefly. "Okay."

------------------

Soujiro looked up as the buzz of _several _Immortals washed over him.

"Are they coming?" Akane asked, recognizing the look on his face.

"Yes." He glanced at her. She met his look, eyes tired. Soujiro reached out, put his hand over hers on the table, and squeezed. He was rewarded by a small, wan smile. Her eyes were red; she'd been crying at night again.

Promptly, Kenshin appeared in the restaurant doorway, followed by MacLeod, Richie, a mortal man who walked with a cane, and a pretty Immortal woman Soujiro didn't know. Thirteen years hadn't changed Kenshin a bit; MacLeod had longer hair, and Richie had died young but looked fit and far tougher than he had before.

_I'd sure like to know how Kenshin does it, _Soujiro thought, watching them approach the table. _He's got the most amazing gift for making friends._

"Souji-san, this is Amanda, and Joe Dawson. You know Richie and MacLeod," Kenshin said. He frowned at Akane, then said, slowly, "And I believe this is my niece Akane Seta ..."

Soujiro grinned. It had been thirteen years; the last time Kenshin had seen Akane, she'd been a skinny junky with bleached blond hair. She'd been clean a decade; was now a thirty-something mother and not a twenty-four year old brat.

Akane nodded, rose from her chair, and said quietly, "Kenshin, you look well."

"As do you." Kenshin hugged her briefly, stepped back, surveyed her, and said, "I'm sorry that the circumstances are not better, that I am."

"Circumstances," she echoed the word. Sighed. Met his eyes. "Uncle Kenshin, they _took my daughter_."

Kenshin swallowed twice -- Soujiro saw his adam's apple bob up and down. "I know, Akane. And I swear to you, we're going to get her back."

Akane nodded wordlessly, and sat down. She was very still, and Kenshin gave her a worried look before claiming his own chair.

"So this is what we have," Soujiro dropped a manila folder on the table after taking it out of a briefcase. "The man we're looking for is named Frank Kerral, according to my daughter. Do any of you recognize the name?"

All four of the other Immortals simultaneously looked at Joe. Who shook his head, very slightly.

Kenshin said mildly, "He knows about Watchers, Joe. I heard about Immortals being killed by Watchers and I warned him."

"How did ..." Joe spluttered.

Kenshin lifted one red eyebrow in inquiry.

"How did you find out about that?" Joe managed to spit out.

"Lost a friend." Kenshin said, very blackly. "Ah -- a mutual friend, MacLeod. I found out about Darius, oh, a year after it happened, when I wondered why I had heard nothing from him in so long. Finding out the whole story took a bit of networking, but Connor knew, and told me. I would have called _you_, MacLeod, but I didn't know where you were living."

"How many people have you told about us?" Joe asked, sounding more tired than upset.

"Thinking of having me killed?" Kenshin asked calmly, but with just a hint of threat in his voice.

"No! Heaven forbid! But there are others who won't like it at all ..."

Kenshin lifted one shoulder up in a shrug. Soujiro thought Joe's horrified denial had been quite reassuring; apparently, Kenshin felt the same way because Souji could see a bit of the tension leave his thin frame. Kenshin said, "I don't like spies. But I haven't told many, only those I know have decent judgment. Soujiro, and a few people in Japan. Violence begets violence, Joe. I would not tell someone likely to kill their Watcher simply because they do not like being watched. "

Joe glanced at Soujiro. "But he knows."

_He knows about my past_, Soujiro realized. _He knows I'd kill again if pushed. Kenshin's pretty harmless, but he knows _I _am not. _

"He is married to my niece." Kenshin said, firmly. "He's family."

Joe shook his head. "Anyway. No, I don't know anything about a Frank Kerrol but I will check and see if I can find anything out.

"Here's a sketch the police did, after interviewing the other kids at the bus stop." Soujiro handed MacLeod a photocopy'd pictured of a man with narrow features and a prominent nose. "He was driving a white pickup. He had tattoos, including one of a snake on his arm."

"Don't know him," MacLeod passed the sketch to Richie.

Richie grunted. "White pickup. Tats. Ah, he's dead."

Soujiro raised an eyebrow.

"Sunofabitch tried to take my head this afternoon," Richie met Soujiro's eyes, and Soujiro realized that the kid had the eyes of a killer now. He was no longer the teenager Soujiro had met years before, not by long shot. "It was a very short fight. At least I know his name."

"You killed him?" Akane stared at Richie.

"He would've killed me, otherwise." Richie shrugged.

"This is an interesting complication," Soujiro said, sourly. _Damnit, if Kerral is dead, where is my daughter?_

"If Kerral's dead, where's Miya?" Kenshin said, voice calm, quiet, and very, very worried.


	3. Chapter 3

-------------------

"We should probably start with Frank Kerral's associates," Soujiro said.

Four Immortals then stared at Joe. Who cleared his throat, held his hand up, and said, "I wouldn't normally do this, but given a kid is involved ..."

"Yeah." Richie sounded disgusted that Joe would even contemplate not helping. "She's a _kid_."

Joe reached under the table and pulled a briefcase up. He flicked it open, and produced a small laptop, a cell phone, and a cable. He hooked the cell phone to the laptop and started typing.

Kenshin, curious, craned his neck to see. "That's a database on Immortals?"

"_Not _my idea," Joe murmured -- apparently at MacLeod, who rolled his eyes. "I'd just as soon we stay in the stone age. But since I've got access to it, I might as well use it."

With quick, efficient keystrokes he pulled up a file on Kerral and then turned it around to Richie. "Is this who you killed?"

"Uh-huh." Richie confirmed. He didn't seem overly distressed; Kenshin shot him a sideways look, wondering if, perhaps, he was wrong about the identity of Richie's soul. On the other hand, taking heads _changed _people. "That's the bastard."

Richie took over the keyboard. The other Immortals and Akane crowded around him. "How do we see his associates?"

Joe reached out and tapped an 'F' key at the top of the keyboard and a list of names populated the screen. "He wasn't very old. Maybe forty years. He's been an Immortal for about two."

"Most idiots don't last even that long," Kenshin observed. "That they don't. Unless you find a good teacher, _and _you're smart, likely, you'll lose your head within a year."

Richie cocked his head sideways and asked, with frank curiosity, "Kenshin, who was your teacher?"

"For swords, I did not need one." Kenshin considered the question for a moment. "I am not ... an orthodox ... Immortal. For learning about who, and what, I am? Darius was my mentor."

"_That _explains a bit," MacLeod said, with a low, amused, laugh.

"I miss him a great deal." The pain was still raw, even though it had been more than a decade since Darius's murder. "He was a very good friend, and a very wise man."

"You could have done no better than Darius for a teacher, Ken -- he was one of the best of us." Macleod agreed with Kenshin's opinion. "We lost a good man when he died. I'd known him for almost two centuries. He never mentioned you."

"Aa. Likely, he wouldn't. I keep a low profile among other Immortals. He knew that, and respected it." Kenshin was watching Richie flip through web pages on Kerral's associates. Most appeared to be mortals.

"So, diid Kerral have a mentor?" Macleod asked.

"Ah ... yes, here." Joe tapped the touch pad on the laptop. "... Hnnh."

"You know him?" Richie asked, regarding the name and picture which had popped up on the screen.

"Marshall's a bit of a slimy bastard, but he's not a hunter," Joe shook his head. "He wouldn't have been after Carrie for her head."

"_Marshall_," Kenshin said, words short, sharp, and clipped. "_I _know him."

"... oh yeah, that's right." Joe said. "That's in your file. Something about a love triangle with you, him, and a young ..."

"_Hardly _a love triangle." Kenshin sounded aghast. "She was a child. Fifteen, though she looked younger; she was fourteen when she lost her life and became one of us. She was the only student I've ever taken. And he ... behaved inappropriately with her. _Very _inappropriately. The results were tragedy. I haven't seen her in over a century. I do not know if she's even still alive."

"Carrie's only thirteen." Akane's voice took on a tone of dark speculation. "Does he have a pattern ...?"

"Yes," Kenshin said, tightly. "My student -- who was like a daughter to me -- was not the first. If Marshall is connected to this, make him a suspect. I should have _killed _him when I had the chance."

"You don't kill," Macleod said, sounding alarmed. Kenshin's tone of voice earned him sharp looks from everyone else at the table.

"Sometimes," Kenshin retorted, "there are crimes which warrant death. Because he did not force her ..." He shook his head, unable to voice his reasoning. He bit out, "I don't kill. But I was tempted, very tempted, to make an exception, for Marshall."

"If one of us doesn't get him first," that was Amanda, who sounded pissed. "Lemme guess. He's smooth talking, suave, and makes the girl think it's all her idea?"

"Hai." Kenshin said, "Yes. That's what I suspect happened with her."

"Carrie was _kidnapped_," Soujiro hissed. "She wasn't sweet-talked into anything."

Kenshin said softly, "Marshall ... tried to force me, as well. That has always bothered me. He was very, very drunk at the time, but ..." he trailed off. It had been over a century and he still didn't like to talk about that. Some old wounds would never heal even for Immortals.

Richie let out a low whistle. "He tried to force _you_? Was he nuts?"

Amanda, surprising Kenshin, was much more tactful. She said quietly, "Drunk is no excuse. -- Joe, where's Marshall living?"

He toggled through several pages. "I've got an address for him. Right here, in Seacouver."

"What do you say we pay him a visit?" Amanda stood up, followed by the others.

-----------------

Marshall, Kenshin thought, was still good at finding comfortable positions. The address was a converted warehouse in a trendy area of the waterfront. Shops on the bottom, a loft on top. It was late at night, and the shops were closed and the area deserted.

Joe's notes indicated that the home was owned by a wealthy socialite who only occasionally visited the area, and Marshall was her boyfriend. The girl wasn't older than twenty, which surprised Kenshin not at all.

Macleod parked his Thunderbird -- he still had the car -- and they piled out: Amanda, Mac, Richie, himself. Akane and Soujiro pulled up on the street behind the convertible and parked their rented SUV. Kenshin, with a bit of black humor, hoped that Marshall died of a heart attack when he felt that many powerful Immortals approaching his home. It wouldn't be fatal, but it would be well deserved.

In truth, he hadn't seen this many Immortals in one place ... ever. His kind were rare, and there was always a bit of tension between them. It was unusual to find this many Immortals who trusted one another enough to work together without holy ground being involved. And who were on the side of the light.

_There's a child in trouble_, he thought. _And these are good people. _

It was Macleod who directed them to flank the small warehouse with quiet gestures. Richie and Soujiro to the right, Amanda and Kenshin to the left. Well, somebody had to lead and Kenshin trusted Mac ... mostly. And a smart warrior, which all of them were, wanted to know about exits and the general lay of the land.

With a nod to Macleod, he followed Amanda down the alley on the left side of the warehouse. It was narrow, but clean -- this was definitely a wealthy area; the alley had cobblestones and the Dumpster by the building's back door was brand new and painted to match the warehouse.

As they approached the Dumpster, he felt a buzz. Amanda paused, hand dropping to the sword concealed in plain sight at her waist. Kenshin reached up and loosened his own weapon, hidden under his overcoat. The sakabatou's worn hilt was familiar to his fingers as he gripped it.

A child peered around the back of the Dumpster.

For a moment -- just a moment -- Kenshin thought he'd found Carrie. And his heart sank, because this child was giving off the unmistakable aura of an Immortal. She'd been killed, and far too young.

The girl blinked at him. And then she stared, with wide brown eyes.

"It's okay," Amanda said, soothingly, "We're friends. Your parents are looking for you."

"Et-to ..." Kenshin said, as stunned recognition dawned. He scarcely believed his eyes. "Amanda, that's not Carrie."

The girl stepped out into the open. She was still staring at him, no expression on her face. This young-appearing Immortal was barely four and a half feet tall, and wore capris, fancy Nikes, and a T-shirt with Spongebob Squarepants on it, and she had her dark, thick hair pulled back into two French braids. She was Asian -- Japanese, he knew, and he knew she was from his own time.

The last time he'd seen her, she had been trying to look _older _than her years. Now, at over a century in age, she looked ten, and he was certain it was deliberate. That loose t-shirt over tight-fitting pants concealed what figure she did have, and the cartoon character looked like something a child would wear.

"Kenshin?" she said, in disbelief.

"... Chiyoko." He breathed, unsure if this was a happy meeting or not.

She took two steps towards him, and then stopped. She said, uncertainly, "I assumed you dead a long time ago."

"I'm in the Tokyo phone book, baka," he said, a mild, instinctive rebuke.

"Umm." She stared at him. "I ..."

"It's okay," he closed his eyes, feeling decades of worry drain away. "I'm just glad you're alive, that I am."

Amanda said quietly, "You know her?"

"Aa. That I do. Amanda, this is Chiyoko."

Chiyoko took a couple of steps closer and then stopped again. She said quietly, "This ... Kenshin-papa, are you still angry at me?"

"I was never angry," he said, quietly.

"Liar." There was annoyance there, in that single word.

She was right. A very long time ago, he had been furious. But the anger had faded quickly, replaced by grief and sorrow and bitter disappointment in her. She had killed with the skills he had taught her -- and killed a mortal man who had not deserved to die, in the defense of the man that had sorely tested Kenshin's vow never to kill, and who had not even needed defending.

After Chiyoko, he had better understood how Hiko had felt when he had left Hiko to join the war as a hitokiri -- and he understood why Hiko had been slow to accept him back, as well. He said quietly, "You're right. I was very angry, Chiyoko. But that was a century ago, that it was. Now is now, and I am no longer as angry with you as I was ... and I am very glad to see you alive, that I am. I feared you dead a long time ago."

"Gods." She breathed out, "Kenshin, you don't seem like you've changed a bit."

"I'm Immortal," he said, with a faint smile.

"I don't mean physically," she said. And then she was stumbling forward, with a small cry. He held his arms open and she threw herself into them and hugged him ferociously. He held her close, confused by her reactions. Over the top of her head, he could see Amanda -- who looked baffled by the whole exchange. Well, she didn't know the history.

After a moment, he put his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her back. He could feel the muscles under her t-shirt; she had kept training. "Chiyoko, we're trying to find Marshall. Do you know where he is?"

"Not here." She shook her head. "He's been gone for a month."

"Do you know where the girl, Carrie Seta, is?" Amanda asked.

Chiyoko said grimly, "No, I don't. She's why I hunt him now. I won't let him hurt another child. I _won't_. I heard through the grapevine about the girl. Immortals talk ... well, you know how it goes."

"Hey, Chiyoko!" A glad cry came from behind both of them, before Kenshin could press her further on that statement.

She spun around. A grin broke across her face. It was honest and open and nothing at all like the wary greeting she had given him. She crowed, "Duncan!"

Chiyoko launched herself into MacLeod's arms. He spun her around in the alley, laughing, then set her back on her feet, but hugged her a moment longer before releasing her. He was grinning boyishly when he straightened up -- the top of Chiyoko's head was even with his elbow. Next to his lanky six feet of height, she looked even smaller than she was. "This is a pleasant surprise, Chiyoko! What are you doing here? You should have called me if you were going to be in town!"

"You _know _this girl?" Amanda sounded annoyed. Kenshin hid a grin at that tone of voice. MacLeod's girlfriend was jealous over that enthusiastic greeting.

"Last I heard, from Connor, you were in Paris!" Chiyoko had gone from wary to excited in a heartbeat. Her eyes sparkled as she bounced on her toes. "Gods, Mac, it's been fifteen years!"

"You _know _each other?" Kenshin echoed Amanda, unsure what to think of that. His protective fatherly tendencies made him wonder exactly how well the two knew each other. Then he reminded himself firmly that she was over a century old -- and that she was deliberately trying to look younger now than she physically was -- and what she did, and with who, was her own business. She hadn't been the child she appeared to be for a very long time.

Still, it bothered him.

"This little waif," Macleod ruffled her hair -- which earned him poke in the ribs that made him dance away with a chuckle, "has been a friend of mine for ... what, almost a century now?"

"A century and five years." Chiyoko said, "Wait, _you _and Kenshin know each other?"

"Yeah, we know each other." Macleod said, then added to Amanda, "Amanda, don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like jealous."

"I'm not jealous." Amanda snorted.

"Don't worry, Macleod thinks I'm too short to date him." Chiyoko elbowed him in the ribs again.

Kenshin let out a breath he hadn't known he had been holding. He wasn't certain he could accept a relationship between MacLeod and Chiyoko, even if it had been decades in the past.

"I do not!" He said, then shot Amanda a look. And then gave Kenshin a keener look; Kenshin realized that he probably had a sour look on his face. "But I'm also attached at the moment. Amanda is my _girlfriend_."

"And I suppose she wouldn't go for a threesome." Chiyoko heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Ah, well. You'll never know what you're missing."

Kenshin blushed, and experienced a bit of mental whiplash as he tried to justify the memories he had of Chiyoko with _that _comment. Had that comment really come from the girl who had been so scared of him that she hadn't voluntarily said a word to him for the first six months she had lived with him and Kaoru, all those years ago?

Macleod, apparently unsurprised, simply snorted a laugh.

Amanda started laughing as well, somewhat incredulously. Well, he supposed hearing that suggestion come from a waif who looked like an elementary school student was a bit ... disconcerting. Kenshin knew Chiyoko could look a good bit older if she tried. And that she wasn't a child. Still, it bothered him to hear that sort of comment from her.

And he suspected Chiyoko was taking full advantage of her looks here to razz MacLeod, though MacLeod only looked amused.

"Hey Mac," Richie and Soujiro and Akane appeared, around the corner. "Nobody's home upstairs."

Chiyoko glanced at them, hand dropping to the wakizashi at her waist. Richie said, "Who's this?"

"Shia Yoko, legally, at the moment. Chiyoko is the name I was born with." She introduced herself, and held her other hand out to Richie to shake, then Soujiro and Akane. "Call me Chi-chan."

"She's hunting Marshall too," Kenshin said. He wanted to get her alone and get the whole story out of her -- he was concerned it might be something she didn't want to talk about in front of strangers, given her history with Marshall. Though he wasn't entirely sure that _he _would be on her list of people to talk to, either.

"Umm ..." Richie cocked his head, studying her.

Kenshin said dryly, "She's -- how old are you, Chiyoko?" He couldn't remember what year she had been born in.

"A lady _never _answers that question," she responded, with an impish grin.

MacLeod said, arms folded, eyes sparkling, "She's 121 years. Or 122 ... Chiyoko, I'm sorry, I forget if we celebrated your centennial in 85 or 86." He grinned at her. Then added to the others, "I hired a clown. I thought Chiyoko was going to kill me."

Akane said quietly, "Maybe someday, Souji will celebrate such a birthday with our daughter."

They sobered instantly. Chiyoko sighed, "I'm sorry, I mean no disrespect to joke with MacLeod. Though, for what it's worth, if Marshall has her -- she's likely still alive. He's a pervert, not a killer. He's never _been _a killer."

Akane made a small, unhappy noise. Soujiro _twitched_. Not for the first time, Kenshin wondered just what the extent of abuse was that he'd suffered so long ago. He was amazed that Soujiro Seta had _ever _learned to trust anyone enough to truly love them -- but somehow, Akane had earned that place in his heart. He'd seen the looks the two had occasionally exchanged.

"So he hasn't changed much, has he?" Kenshin asked, of Chiyoko, acerbically.

"You were _so _right to hate him, Kenshin."

"We need to talk, that we do." He nodded at her.

"Yes, later," she agreed, and flashed him a brief, shy smile. He returned it with another nod -- and hope bloomed in his heart. Perhaps things had not gone irreparably wrong between him and Chiyoko, all those decades ago. Then she gestured upwards, at the windows of the loft, a good ten feet above their heads. There was a fire escape with a ladder folded up underneath it. "Marshall's obviously not there, 'cause no buzz, but we might as well see what's in there."

"Bit of breaking and entering," Amanda said, with a gleeful grin. "A girl after my own heart."

Chiyoko shot her a look. MacLeod snorted another laugh, though a bit subdued now. He said, "Hardly. She'd be more likely to turn you in than help you, Amanda."

Kenshin heard that comment, and smiled a private smile. So Chi-chan had ethics. He was pleased by that, if not entirely surprised. Her early upbringing would always influence her for both the good and the bad.

Having just known Amanda for a few hours, he was willing to bet that she had grown up poor and desperate. He knew the signs well. Chiyoko had never known hardship as a child; she was the daughter of rich merchants.

"This is for a good cause," Chiyoko said, sounding a bit defensive. "Or no, I would _not _be breaking in."

Kenshin glanced her way in acknowledgement of that statement -- then crouched and leaped for the ladder. He caught it easily and his weight pulled it down. He heard a gasp of surprise from Amanda, and a comment from MacLeod, "He'd be a damn good basketball player, what do you think?"

The others followed him in. The loft was tastefully decorated with modern furniture and lots of chrome. They fanned out through the rooms -- where they found nothing of note except a couple of swords. No sign of the missing child, and no sign of Marshall.

Leaving the loft undisturbed, they slipped back out.

"We should stake the place out," MacLeod said. He pointed at a neighboring building. "We'd be out of range for him to detect us if we were up on that roof, and when he comes home, he'll turn the lights on."

Kenshin agreed. It sounded like a good plan. Marshall was their best lead at the moment.

"We'll take the first watch," Soujiro said, nodding at his wife. "I call dibs on the bastard's head, anyway, if he took Carrie."

"How good of a fighter is Marshall?" Amanda asked.

"Bad," Chiyoko said, "I'm astonished he's still alive. Any of us could take him out."

"Not very good," Kenshin agreed. "By our standards, anyway. He's better than average overall. I haven't seen you or Richie fight," he nodded at Amanda, "but I would say that any of the rest of us would win in a fair Challenge with him."

"Amanda's as good as I am, and Richie's getting there," MacLeod advised Kenshin. "Soujiro, Akane -- do you have the phone number to the dojo?"

Soujiro shook his head.

"I'll text it to him," Kenshin said, "I've got it."

"Why don't the rest of us go back to the dojo, for now? I'd like to get on the phone and the internet and do some networking. Some of my friends may have a better idea where Marshall may be staying, since he's obviously not here at the moment."

Chiyoko said, "I'll meet you guys at the dojo -- Kenshin, can you text me the directions if I give you my phone number?"

He nodded. "Of course."

"I'm going to go home," she glanced down at her t-shirt, with its cartoon-character logo, "and lose Spongebob here."

"Awww, but he's so cute ..." Richie's eyes twinkled, teasingly.

"This is my working look, when I'm trying to avoid much notice. Nobody looks twice at kids," Chiyoko said, impatiently. She barely even looked at Richie. "I'll meet you guys at Mac's dojo, then."

Kenshin wanted to hug her once more -- but instead, he simply said, "Chiyoko?"

"Aa, Kenshin-san?"

"I am very glad you are alive, that I am."

She grinned. "That makes two of us, then. -- We'll talk, later, Kenshin. I promise."

After they parted ways, MacLeod said quietly, to Kenshin, "She's a remarkable women. I never realized you two knew each other."

"I've thought her dead for decades, that I have," Kenshin said, equally softly. "It's been so very long, I am not sure I can claim to know her now. MacLeod, what is she like?"

"Honorable." MacLeod's response was prompt. "Very moral. Very intelligent, too. She rarely takes heads; she only does so when sorely provoked. And I've seen her walk away from Challenges that I personally would have accepted."

MacLeod added, after a brief moment, "She was your student?"

"Aa. The only one I have ever taken. I thought she would be dead, if I did not train her. You could not tell this from her fighting style?"

"She won't spar with me, and the only Challenges of hers that I've witnessed have been extremely brief." MacLeod paused. "She's very quick and very efficient and if she sets out to kill someone, she doesn't fuck around. They're _dead _in seconds.

Kenshin closed his eyes. "I remember that from her. She's so fast in a fight because she stops thinking, she just starts reacting from muscle memory and spinal reflex. It must be like fighting a robot which moves faster than you can see. And she's _very _good, MacLeod. Once upon a time, a long time ago, I thought she would surpass my own abilities in many ways. And by your description she has lived up to my hopes for her."

He hesitated, "I only wish I'd known she was alive, sooner, that I do."


	4. Chapter 4

Kenshin looked amazing, Chiyoko thought, as she parked her bike in the alley behind MacLeod's dojo. Seeing him again had been unexpectedly wonderful. In truth, she had assumed him dead a long time ago because, despite his skills with a sword, he was handicapped by his unwillingness to fight to the death.

"Should've looked Darius up and asked," she muttered under her breath, as she padlocked the motorcycle to a telephone pole. Darius would have been easy to find.

She sighed, then, and admitted to herself, _I didn't want to know. I didn't want to hear he was dead. Or conversely, that he was alive ... because if he was alive, I would have to face him and admit I was an idiot._

Her logic had told her that Kenshin was likely dead, but her heart had wanted to think that he was still alive.

The funny thing was, Chiyoko had forgotten how short he was, and how young he looked. _Bet he has the same problems ordering a drink I do_, she thought, with sudden amusement. She had not thought of him as young a century ago, but now, seen through eyes that were far older, he looked like a boy.

In truth, he was only thirty-some years her senior which, over a lifetime that could span millenia, wasn't much at all.

And he probably seemed even shorter and smaller now because people, on average, were taller.

She pushed the dojo door open and slipped inside. Mac's place was definitely a working gym; it smelled like sweaty men and testosterone, with side orders of leather and wood and steel and machismo. Chiyoko wondered if Mac would let her train here -- after hours, of course, because training around adult mortal men was always a prescription for weirdness. They would take her for a teenager and either dote on her or harass her. Either way, they got in the way when she was seriously trying to train. And if they realized just how good she was, then things got really strange.

Kenshin was leaning against the wall by the elevator, arms folded, head bowed. She felt his buzz as she walked through the door. He looked up, and smiled at her. "Everyone else is upstairs."

Again, she thought that he looked amazing.

Jeans looked good on Kenshin, and he was wearing a pair that fit him like a glove. He had on a sturdy pair of hiking boots, too; expensive ones. She understood _why _he wore those boots -- they had steel toes and weighed a couple pounds each and would be efficient weapons in and of themselves in a fight. She also wouldn't put it past him to have lock-picks or a small knife concealed in the soles.

His scarred arms were folded over a rich green silk shirt -- the wedding band on one finger gleamed under the dojo's lights. She wondered if he had remarried after Kaoru, or if he wore it in her honor. Imagining Kenshin with anyone but Kaoru was difficult, but Kaoru had certainly been dead sixty, seventy, maybe eighty years. A pang of grief touched her at that thought; she did not know the fates of any of his family, and she had often wished she did.

Kenshin's hair was neatly groomed and not nearly as messy as it had once been. That was a result of modern conditioners, she supposed. There was no denying that Kenshin had peacock tendencies and that gorgeous hair was his crowning glory.

He was regarding her from beneath those fiery bangs now, silent under her more careful survey. Earlier, she hadn't gotten past the utter shock of realizing it was her old mentor and she had not made a close scrutiny of him.

"Kenshin-papa." The nickname slipped easily off her tongue. She had not wanted to call him _father _all those years ago -- it had felt disrespectful to her own father, who had died so long ago. So she had called him 'Kenshin-papa' as a compromise, because he had been family.

"Chiyoko," he breathed out, smiling. In Japanese, he said, "I was worried I'd imagined you, that I had."

"Nah," she replied.

He wouldn't meet her eyes, despite his smile. He said, quietly, "Before we go up, to talk to the others, I want to speak to you, just for a minute."

"If it's about what happened between us, well, I understand why you did it." She had been sentenced to death, and she had swung. Kenshin had collected her body and, after she woke, he had left her standing in the rain in the outskirts of London. He had given her money, and a ticket to America, and had told her to leave and never to return.

His smile was wry. "I thought you would understand, someday, but Chiyoko -- that was the hardest thing I ever did in my life, turning my back on you."

She shrugged. "Water under the bridge, Kenshin. I've learned not to carry grudges. And you had good reasons."

His reasons had included a wife, children, family. She didn't blame him for the decision he had made; in his shoes, her own choice would have been the same as his. He could not leave with her because of them -- and she could not stay, having just been 'executed' for killing a nobleman. But it didn't mean that, when she thought back to those terrible days, that she didn't feel just the same.

"Hai. I did. I would not do anything different if the situation happened again ... though I do wish I could go back in time and castrate Marshall."

She snorted a laugh. "If they ever invent a time machine, you'd have to stand in line after me. Bastard that he is, I'm taking his head if I get a chance."

"Soujiro is claiming dibs on it," Kenshin said, rather calmly by her estimation -- she'd expected him to argue against killing Marshall. To her surprise, he added, "I'm inclined to let him do it, too. Marshall has had over a century to mend his ways, and I believe he will only hurt more children if we don't stop him."

"You've changed," she said, slowly.

"No," he said, meeting her gaze. His amethyst eyes looked bleak. "I haven't. I have often wondered if I did the right thing in letting Marshall go all those years ago."

"I've got a pretty good claim on that bastard's head, as well."

"Chiyoko -- will you tell me about your life?" Kenshin said softly.

He was asking for more than just a few tales, and she knew it. And she also knew that she could hurt him, and badly, by telling him just how horrible her life had been at various points. He would blame himself, and she'd figured out long ago that the only blame for her misadventures lay on her own head and fate's whims. She shook her head. "I'd rather not remember most of it."

"Very well." He nodded once, but his eyes looked even more troubled. She supposed he was coming to the logical conclusions about just how hard she'd had it.

Well, she owed him a confession about Marshall, anyway. "Reason I want the bastard dead is I met up with him again twice more. Had relations with him, twice more."

Kenshin closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm not a child anymore. I knew what he was. I used him as much as he used me." She brushed her hair back from her eyes with a finger, and added, "First time, he left me -- back in the 1940's. I was drinking too much and he didn't like it."

"Drinking."

"Yeah. I learned the hard way that there aren't any answers in the bottom of a bottle." She wasn't going to tell him _how _long it had taken her to learn that lesson, or how many close calls she'd had while dead drunk. "Met up with him again four, five years ago. He cheated on me."

Kenshin gave her a _look_. That look made her feel like she was fifteen again, and had just done something spectacularly stupid.

"Yeah, it probably wasn't the brightest thing in the world to do." She stood on one leg and scratched her calf with the toe of her boot. "The girl he cheated on me with? Was a seventeen year old kid. The neighbor's daughter. She wasn't a bad girl, really. She just had issues, which he did _not _help."

"And ... you want his head for this?" Infidelity, Kenshin obviously thought, wasn't a capital crime. And Kenshin, a product of a very different world, had different ideas of _child _and _adult _than most of the modern times. Seventeen would be bordering on _adult_ in his view -- Kenshin himself had been married the first time at fifteen, _after _having spent a year at war as an assassin.

His tone held a good bit of censor. Ah, she remembered that tone very well despite the century that had passed since she'd seen him last. Kenshin's moral code was iron clad and unshakable. He might agree with her that Marshall needed killing -- but he was still going to call her on it if she cited the wrong reasons for ending his life.

"No, I want his _head _because she got pregnant and he killed her for it, two years later." Immortals couldn't have children, so it had been obvious to Marshall that his new girlfriend had cheated on him. She found it bitterly ironic that he had been infuriated by this, when he had done the same to her, and with the other girl in question. She added, savagely, "She was four months pregnant when he shoved her off a balcony during an argument. I wasn't there, but her mother was, and told me later. Apparently, she tried to tell him the baby was his. Which was stupid, but hey, not a capital offense."

Kenshin sighed, heavily, eyes closing. "I should have taken his head when I had the chance, that I should."

She grimaced. "For what it's worth, I very nearly did when I caught him cheating on me. But it wasn't ... okay, it was stupid of him to do, and dishonest, and unfaithful. _I _was stupid for trusting the bastard again. But I didn't think it was worth killing him over. Figured leaving him would be punishment enough 'cause, uh, he needed me a whole lot more than I needed him. Then I found out what he did to her ..."

When she looked up, Kenshin was studying her with those level amethyst eyes. He started to say something, then closed his mouth. She saw something in his eyes -- they'd changed. He'd been wary of her, in the beginning. She'd felt it in his stance when she had hugged him. She had seen it in his attitude, which had been just slightly suspicious. But now she watched that caution fade away. He said softly, "Chiyoko -- I have been concerned, for over a century, that in training you I had made a mistake."

She blinked at him. Made a mistake?

"Nobody in this world is perfect. But perhaps -- perhaps you have become what I hoped you would be." He glanced upwards. "I believe MacLeod and Joe are waiting for us. They have some questions about Marshall that I cannot answer."

-----------------

Amanda was watching MacLeod with uncomfortable intensity. She was seated crosslegged on his couch, eating grapes, and staring at him. It made his skin crawl, because he knew she was thinking bad thoughts at him. He tried to focus on the laptop on his kitchen table without much success.

He finally turned around and said, "It's not like that with the girl."

"Either of them." Yeah, she was annoyed. Jealous. She knew damn well he didn't swing that way and never had. "The red-haired one or the ..."

Richie snorted. "You wouldn't call Kenshin a girl if you'd ever seen him fight. Which I have."

"Girls can fight, Richie," MacLeod said, before Amanda could have his head for that comment.

Richie, who was sprawled in a kitchen chair opposite him at the table, gave him a baleful look. "You know what I mean. The guy may be a .. a ... anorexic little shrimp, with way too much pretty hair, but Amanda, he fights like nobody I've ever seen before. First time I ever saw him ..."

"... you _really _don't need to tell ..." MacLeod started to protest.

Richie kept right on going, "... he could have had Mac's head. That sword he carries, the blade's reversed. It's dull on the fighting edge. He broke Mac's neck with it. Mac, did you even get a blow in?"

"No," Mac growled. "He took me by surprise. I've scored on him in sparring matches, though."

"... really." Amanda purred and slipped another grape between her lips. "He doesn't look like much."

"Trust me," MacLeod said, "He -- and Chiyoko, who I am _not _surprised to learn he trained -- are two of the best fighters I have ever met."

"The kid can fight?"

"That's no kid," MacLeod grinned, fondly. "Trust me on that one. And yes, she can fight."

"Have to spar with her a bit, then." Amanda pursed her lips, making the grape appear between them, before swallowing it whole. He saw her throat work, which made him think of the _other _things she could do with her mouth ... and her throat.

MacLeod glared at her, knowing she was distracting him just to be annoying. She was jealous of Chiyoko, no doubt, and insecure, and acting inappropriately because of it. And really, she had absolutely nothing to be insecure about when it came to the little Immortal. "That would be interesting."

"You think she can beat me? Mac, she's four and a half feet tall. She weighs maybe eighty pounds. And that sword she's got would barely skin a rabbit." Amanda held her hands six inches apart. Actually, Chiyoko's wakizashi was around twenty inches long -- it was short, but he had seen Chiyoko wield it to very good effect. As small as she was, she couldn't _wear _a longer sword comfortably at her waist.

Mac grinned. "Like I said, it would be an interesting fight."

Amanda gave him a skeptical look.

At that moment, the elevator rattled to life; they turned to face it, and Kenshin and Chiyoko appeared. Kenshin slid the door up and handed Mac his elevator key back. MacLeod contemplated giving Kenshin his own key, and decided it was too soon for that level of trust. Yes, he liked Kenshin -- he liked Kenshin rather a lot, even if he thought the man was an idealistic fool at times -- but he hadn't survived four centuries by being rashly trusting.

"There's coffee," MacLeod said. It was pushing ten o'clock at night. He was exhausted, and he assumed everyone else was.

"Thank you," Kenshin said, heading immediately for the coffeemaker. He poured himself a rather large cup, and asked Chiyoko, "Do you drink ...?"

She shook her head. MacLeod, having already anticipated Chiyoko's taste in beverages said, "There's rum on the shelf over the fridge, and Pepsi in the fridge -- I don't have any Coke, sorry."

"Pepsi will work." She stared up at the top of the fridge. So did Kenshin. He then looked at _her, _then the two of them looked at MacLeod. Kenshin's clear amethyst eyes sparkled with innocent humor at his own expense; Chiyoko just looked disgruntled. He'd forgotten, in telling her to help herself, that the top of the fridge was inaccessible territory to folks under five feet tall. .

"Have pity on the short people, will you?" Chiyoko grumbled at him.

"Sorry." MacLeod sighed. "Richie, would you ..."

Richie retrieved the bottle of rum. He handed it to Chiyoko and said, with a smirk, "There is something _wrong _about giving you this."

Amanda snickered.

Chiyoko glared at him, obviously not impressed by the comment and seeing no humor in it. Richie frowned, and returned to his seat. Well, MacLeod thought, Richie would learn soon enough not to pick on Chiyoko about either her height or her biological age unless you _wanted _to piss her off. Pissing Chiyoko off, of course, could be entertaining.

She then poured herself a rum and Pepsi -- he noted without surprise that there was a lot more Pepsi than rum in that glass -- and joined MacLeod at the table, with Kenshin trailing after her. "So, did you turn anything up?" Chiyoko sipped her booze.

"Not much," Joe cast her a glance that didn't miss much. "You've been hunting him a few years."

MacLeod regarded Chiyoko with curiosity, wondering what she would make of Joe. He hadn't told her about Watchers -- he hadn't seen her since he'd discovered them himself. Kenshin, obviously, had never gotten a chance to tell her about them either.

"You know what we are." It was a flat statement of fact. Her look to MacLeod was questioning.

"Joe, Chiyoko. Chiyoko, Joe Dawson." MacLeod introduced them. He decided to let Joe tell Chiyoko what he was, if he chose to. Did Chiyoko have a watcher? He wondered.

"Shia Yoko," she corrected, which was likely her legal identity at the moment. "Call me Chi-chan."

"Chi-chan."

She sipped her Pepsi and rum and asked nothing about him.

"I've been on the phone calling around," MacLeod explained. "Marshall's been busy the last few years, it seems. He's taken several heads. You're not the only person who'd like to see him dead."

"Marshall taking heads?" Kenshin raised both eyebrows. He downed half his cup of coffee before adding, "He's a lousy swordsman. Or he was."

"Still is, as of a few years ago," Chiyoko said. "He's sloppy. Opportunistic, more than skilled, at anything he does. He's also never been big on the Game -- it's how he survived all these years. He avoids Challenges."

MacLeod grunted. He'd met a few Immortals like that over the years. Or, if he wanted to be honest, more than a few. In fact -- he could name one five thousand year old man who had survived the last few millenia by avoiding confrontation whenever possible.

Kenshin drained his coffee and rose for another cup. When he returned he said, somewhat apologetically, "I'm still on Tokyo time. I can barely keep my eyes open. I apologize if I am a bit fuzzy."

"When was the last time you had any sleep?" Chiyoko said, chidingly.

He tilted his head sideways, considering the question. "In Tokyo. I never sleep on airplanes."

Too many people in close proximity, MacLeod knew. He had much the same reaction. They were both warriors -- he well understood how being jammed into a small space with a few hundred other people could nix any possibility of sleep for someone who viscerally knew what it was like to be ambushed and fight to the death.

That was an eighteen hour flight, if MacLeod recalled correctly, counting all the assorted transfers. Plus he had been several hours on the ground here, depending on when his flight had arrived. He wouldn't be surprised to learn if the man had been up twenty-four hours straight.

"Where are you staying?"

"Was going to get a hotel room, that I was." Kenshin cupped a hand behind his head, looking abashed. "I'll probably do that in the morning. I can sleep in my rental car, until then."

"You can crash ..."

"... at my place." He and Chiyoko offered, simultaneously.

Kenshin eyed Chiyoko for a minute, then said, somewhat cautiously, "Oro! I think MacLeod, your couch will work. If you do not mind this one ... crashing ... here."

"Not at all. This time," he told the other Immortal, with a grin, knowing full well that Kenshin had been hoping he'd offer him a place to sleep for the night that didn't have seatbelts in it -- but he was too polite and humble to actually _ask_. "Hell, Ken, I don't have to wash the blood off you first."

Amanda observed, "Oh, there's a story there."

"A short one ..." MacLeod said, earning himself a groan from Kenshin. Hassling Kenshin was as much fun as hassling Chiyoko -- maybe moreso, because the man had far more of a sense of humor about himself. "Seriously. Kenshin got killed, messily, and we hauled him home."

"Rinse, lather, repeat." Richie put in. "Literally. I wouldn't have believed a man that small could have that much blood in him."

"It happened more than once?" Chiyoko said, somewhat incredulously. "Kenshin, you're slipping."

"Oro! I only got killed twice." He plopped his head down on his arms, red hair spilling over his arms. He sound embarrassed. Well, if you were as good a fighter as Kenshin, dying twice in a week probably was a bit humiliating, MacLeod realized.

Not that anything like that had ever happened to _him_.

Chiyoko snorted. "Nobody's killed me in over a century. That execution was the last time."

Kenshin lifted his head up and regarded her balefully from beneath his bangs. There was rebuke in his voice. "I don't mind dying. I have old friends waiting for me. Kaoru has been there, in the past, though I no longer sense her ki around me, so I suspect she has finally moved on. Sometimes ..." he trailed off. MacLeod wondered what he'd started to say.

"Reincarnated, you mean?" Chiyoko asked. She paused and added, "Anyone ever tell you that you're weird?"

"Frequently," Kenshin murmured. And he yawned.

MacLeod took that as a sign to hurry through the information he'd dug up on the 'net. He said, "I've gotten a couple of e-mails back about Marshall, Kenshin, since you went downstairs."

"Aa?" Kenshin perked up. Chiyoko drained her glass of Pepsi and rum.

"He killed an Immortal named Albus Caeser about a year ago." MacLeod shut his laptop with a snap. "He was about two thousand years old."

"How did Marshall kill someone that old?" Chiyoko said, skeptically. "Are we sure it was him?"

"Yeah. My source is Hideo ... he's an older Immortal, and he knows Marshall well enough to offer a few pithy observations about his character." MacLeod ran a hand over his head. Some of those comments had also involved pointed suggestions that somebody needed to take Marshall's head, and that Hideo was willing to if MacLeod wasn't. MacLeod continued, "He knew Albus, too, and doesn't seem to think the world lost much when Marshall took him out. Actually, his exact words were that Marshall finally did the world some good."

"Hideo." Kenshin grinned, suddenly. Obviously, he knew the other Immortal and approved of him. "There's a name I haven't heard in a few years. Is he still living in Kyoto?"

"Yeah," MacLeod said.

"I should give send him an e-mail myself."

Amanda stretched lazily. "Always liked the man, myself. Athletic fellow."

MacLeod gave her a _look_. Now she was trying to make _him _jealous. Kenshin also gave her a sharp glance; his expression was a bit startled. He obviously wasn't, yet, expecting rampant innuendo from Amanda. Richie, for his part, just rolled his eyes at Joe, and MacLeod decided the two of them had Amanda's game figured out as well. She was _definitely _jealous.

"You know him?" Mac asked Kenshin.

"He's Japanese," Kenshin said, as if that was explanation enough. Well, MacLeod thought, perhaps it was. Japan was an island -- given enough time, and Kenshin had been around a century and a half -- it was perhaps inevitable that the Japanese Immortals would largely know one another. "How does he know about Marshall _now_?"

"Grapevine, apparently. Hideo's got connections to a few Immortals in San Francisco, which is where Marshall was living up until last month."

"There's several Japanese Immortals living in San Francisco." Kenshin said, adding, "Soujiro was complaining they won't talk to him."

"And that's another connection to Carrie, that he was living in San Francisco. And -- is there any wonder _why _they won't speak to Seta?" MacLeod said, pointedly.

"Heh, no," Kenshin shook his head. Soujiro had hunted other Immortals for over a century. Soujiro had dropped out of the game, largely because Akane disapproved, but no love was lost between him and those Immortals more inclined towards peace.

"About a week after he killed Caeser, he put his home in San Francisco up for sale," MacLeod said. "Got that off the MLS listing. It's still for sale. He then moved around the country; through various means ..."

Here, Joe held his hand up, signifying _watcher means_.

"... we've linked him to half a dozen other Challenges. He's come out on top against some pretty big foes, and he's taken out some good people." MacLeod ran a hand over his face. "I'm guessing that he picked up a few swordskills when he took Caeser's head."

"He's still never been a killer," Chiyoko said, dubiously. "He's a whole 'nother type of evil."

"Hm. You said he was opportunistic," MacLeod said. "It may be that now that he _can _fight at a high level, he's taking heads because he can."

"Maybe," Kenshin said, doubtful skepticism in his voice. "Maybe that's the explanation."

------------------


	5. Chapter 5

Soujiro was silent and still -- only his short hair moved, ruffled by a light breeze that carried the scent of the ocean on it. He stood at the edge of the roof, hands resting calmly on the wall. From up here they could see the city lights, could see the sun just starting to lighten the eastern sky -- and they could also see that there wasn't a light on in Marshall's loft.

His calm posture was deceptive. Years of marriage to the man had lent Akane a certain degree of understanding of the mystery that was Soujiro Seta. He rarely showed his emotions outwardly -- when he did, his facial expressions were downright deceptive. A smile didn't mean he was happy; often it meant he was furious or scared. And his body language rarely showed anything but reserve and caution.

Sometimes, she had no idea what went on in that pretty head of his. Sometimes he left her scratching her own head, baffled,

But given the circumstances, he had to be just as distraught as she was. She was certain of that, even if he wasn't showing it.

She glanced over at him -- they were almost the same height, she and him. Though he was certainly aware she was looking at him, because he missed very little in the world around him, he didn't look back. A happy Soujiro would have met her gaze with at least a glance in her direction.

Yes, he was very upset. If she asked him how he felt, however, he'd give her a wholly inappropriate grin and say nothing.

She herself ... she wanted to scream, to throw things, to cry and wail and vomit. Only Soujiro's unnatural calm was keeping her from absolute panic. He was strong; he inspired strength in her, as well. He always had. .

She stepped closer to him and said quietly, "I don't think he's going to show, love."

Hesitantly -- he was always hesitant about showing emotions -- he reached around and pressed his hand into the small of her back and pulled her closer. "I think you're right," Soujiro whispered.

"We'll find him," she replied, leaning against his wiry frame. "You're exhausted, Souji. Even if you saw him now, you wouldn't be at the top of your game."

His arms tightened around her. It was funny -- he never said he loved her. Never said he loved Carrie, either. She'd never heard the words pass his lips, not once. Speaking his emotions was just not his way. Carrie sometimes teased him about it -- she teased her father with confidence, because she knew she was loved anyway, by both of them. His actions spoke far louder than any words a father or a husband might say.

When his arms tightened around her and he buried his face in her hair, she _knew _what he felt. She knew that she had earned the love and trust of this man. And it hadn't been easy -- he'd shoved her away half a dozen times. First he'd said she didn't measure up to his standards. And when she had _changed_, for him, because she wanted _him_, more than anyone else in the world -- and when she had proven she had changed -- he had shoved her away with equal vigor, saying _he _wasn't worthy of _her. _

And she'd persisted anyway, because she knew he _could _be worthy.

And she had finally challenged him, in her own way: told him that no, he _wasn't _worthy. He had hunted other Immortals, and killed them, in the name of a filthy game. He had done terrible things to mortals, as well. He had fought on the behalf of bad men. And, she told him, _she _had changed for him. Was he willing to change for her? Because, she'd told him, she knew he _could _-- but she wasn't sure she was worth it to him.

And finally, he had. She still remembered the anger and hurt in her heart. She had thrown a gauntlet down.

And he had picked it up. And met her challenge.

And a year later, voice shaking, more honest emotion in his eyes than she had ever seen before, he had asked for her hand in marriage. Begged, actually. He had said he didn't want to live his life without her, and that he trusted her with his life and with his heart. He trusted her to stay clean and sober, and he _wanted _her enough to overcome his very real issues with personal relationships.

Now, he held her close for a long moment. She said quietly, "We _will _find her."

"And either way, I'm having that man's _head_," Soujro growled. He paused. "I'm going to cut his nuts off at neck level."

"Yes," she agreed. Because it was about Carrie.

She still remembered the day they'd found a little girl rummaging in the trash behind their condo. She had wanted to call the police -- Carrie had been four, skinny and feral, barely speaking, and wearing only a diaper and a too-small t-shirt.

Soujiro had taken one look, scooped her up, carried her inside, and declared that _they _would be raising this child. "She's like me," he had growled at her, when she had worried about what the law would say. "She's one of us, an Immortal."

Soujiro's ethics were questionable under the best of circumstances, but she actually agreed with him when more about the girl's history had come out.

It had turned out that Carrie was a foster child -- her disappearance had been quite a scandal. They learned, via rather major newspaper coverage, that she had vanished from a group home two blocks away. The police had discovered the home to be filthy, the children dirty and unfed and beaten and unloved, and the 'foster parents' both had criminal records. It had been a media field day.

Carrie, the newspapers told them, had been found as an abandoned infant -- and by the time that the legalities were sorted out and she was available for adoption, she had been too old to be easily placed, particularly after the first potentially adoptive home she'd been put had fallen through. And so she had ended up in the system.

They had quietly taken a very long overseas vacation with the child in tow.

Carrie, with her brilliant blue eyes and fair skin under a curly mop of shiny black hair, did not look like either of them. However, Soujiro had handily solved that problem -- they had left the United States and visited an Eastern European country with bribable authorities, and had liberally spent money crafting a paper trail. When they had returned to San Franscico two years later it was with their 'adopted daughter' in tow. Carrie had a plausible birth certificate and a cover story of being adopted overseas. Nobody had ever been the wiser.

Soujiro, like most Immortals, was very good at crafting false identities. It was a survival skill for him.

She never would have thought he would make a good parent. He was not a demonstrative man -- he rarely showed affection, but he also never showed anger. He was preternaturally calm, and absolutely consistent. If he said he'd do something -- he did. It didn't matter if it was a promise to take a little girl to the park later, or a threat of punishment for misbehavior. He _always _carried through on his word.

Carrie, who had never known consistency in her life, had very quickly figured this out and had come to trust him before she trusted anyone else. Akane -- who was the first one to admit that she had a hot temper and a tendency towards speaking before thinking -- had found it took a lot longer to earn Carrie's affection. For the first _year _they had been together, Carrie had clung to Soujiro and viewed Akane with significant suspicion bordering on terror. Eventually, Akane had won the girl's love as well, but it hadn't been nearly as easy for her.

Soujiro had been utterly patient with her. It had been Soujiro who had housebroken a four year old girlchild who had the manners of a wild animal ... and the finger dexterity of, well, a four year old. Diapers had not stayed on her for more than a few minutes after a mess happened, with resultant damage to the carpeting. Potty training had been the _first _thing they, or rather, mostly Souji had tackled. .

It had been Souji who had also calmly encouraged her language skills -- by first grade, Carrie was not only speaking at her grade level she was also reading above it. Souji's doing; Akane was the first to admit she didn't have the patience. He spent _hours _talking to her, correcting her grammar, insisting she speak in complete sentences, and -- with almost boring tedium -- reminding her not to swear. She'd come to them with the language skills of a child a few years younger and the rude word vocabulary of a sailor. Nothing like hearing a four year old call someone a 'Motherfucking motherfucker' to drive home what her past life had been like!

Despite Soujiro's constant corrections, Akane had _not _been surprised when Carrie's first detention, obtained in her first week of first grade, had involved her use of profanity. Several years later, it was still an issue with her ... and a battle they'd decided they simply weren't going to win.

Akane, for her part, had tried to give Carrie the affection that Soujiro was incapable of showing. She had sworn that she would _never _be like her own parents -- her mother had spent more time drunk than not, and her father had never spoken to her without being painfully critical. She had made sure Carrie knew she was loved (by both of them).

At thirteen, Akane was so very proud of Carrie. She had come so very far -- from an unwashed brat who could barely speak to a kind, loving girl with dreams of college. Carrie wanted to be a veterinarian -- and Akane thought she had the grades and the smarts to do it.

_We have to get her back_, Akane thought. _She has to be alive. I cannot bear it if she is not alive. If she's died because we were careless, because we didn't watch for other Immortals close enough., it's our fault. I love her so very much ... _

Soujiro suddenly straightened up, going on alert. His eyes were distant, and his hand dropped to his sword.

"Marshall?" She asked, hand sliding inside her purse. Soujiro wouldn't approve, but, by God, Marshall was _not _getting away. She'd shoot him if she had to.

"It's a good ki," he said, almost absently.

She didn't need to ask why he had his hand on his sword. Souji was being defensive because he had not always been a good guy. A few years after they'd gotten married, and when Carrie was only five, they'd run into an Immortal on the side of the light -- a good guy who had tried to take Souji's head in revenge for Soujiro's past crimes. Soujiro had ended up killing the man out of pure self defense.

It hadn't exactly bothered Soujiro to do so. He'd commented to her later, "Well, he _knew _the rules when he Challenged me."

She had been disturbed, but then, she'd known Soujiro had a cold, hard, dark side pretty much for as long as she'd known him. That he, mostly, chose to behave in a way that she approved of was largely because of his respect for her. He loved her and was good because she wanted him to be. And mostly this was enough, and mostly, she tried not to think too much of what he was capable of.

It was the very real possibility of good guys not being friends had Soujiro on alert.

The owner of the ki turned out to be Amanda, who appeared from the building's stairwell. Soujiro didn't exactly relax, but his hand dropped away from his katana. "You guys ready for a break?"

Soujiro nodded. "If you will call me if he appears."

"Sure." Amanda shrugged. She eyed him curiously for a moment. "Mac said to tell you that Marshall took the head of a pretty old Immortal last year. He may be a lot more competent with a sword now."

"I can handle him," Soujiro said, with a smile that wasn't forced at all. It was, however, a predatory expression.

"Uh-huh," Amanda said. "Well, we're going to do four hour shifts, watching the building. I'm gonan take it now, and then it'll be Chiyoko, then Kenshin, then Mac, then Richie, then you again. It's six AM, so you don't need to be back until two AM. That work for you?"

"Yeah," Soujiro said, "but I want his head. Just call me if he shows up."

"Never in all the world has an Immortal had more people lined up to kill him, who were more capable of doing so." Amanda sounded darkly amused. She added, to Akane, in a brighter tone, "Your uncle Kenshin's kinda cute."

"He's married," Akane said, following the intent of Amanda's question with ease. She wondered if Macleod knew his woman was thinking about other men, then decided it was likely he did. Amanda was just that sort of woman -- she was a free spirit, fey and fickle, and if she chose to leave Mac for another there wasn't a thing Mac could do about it.

"Ah, so he is." Amanda exhaled a sigh that sounded wry.

Akane advised, with a snort of disgust, "I wouldn't bother even trying for Kenshin. He gets hit on by men and women alike; even when he _wasn't _married he paid them no mind. Loyal doesn't begin to describe him."

-----------

Kenshin woke when his cell phone beeped, announcing a dying battery. He lifted his head from the pillow on MacLeod's couch -- a lifetime of wandering had left him unsurprised at waking in strange places, but it wasn't often that he woke to find himself being stared at by two other Immortals. He had been more deeply asleep than he had planned.

MacLeod and Richie were eating breakfast at the kitchen table. Mac's loft was all one room, with a ready view of the couch from the table. Kenshin felt their gaze burn across his ki as he sat up. He suspected they'd been watching him for quite a long period of time.

"You have the most remarkable bed head," Richie observed, fork poised over a thick slab of french toast.

"What time is it?" Kenshin said, still a bit thick-headed and groggy. He gave the comment about his hair all the answer it deserved, which was none. He reached for his cell phone, which was tucked into his boot beside the couch, but it had already turned off; the charger was in his suitcase, still in his rental car's trunk.

"About six AM," MacLeod informed him.

"I was very tired, I suppose. I meant to wake earlier, that I did."

"You were up how many hours? At least thirty, I'm guessing. You were only asleep for five." MacLeod pointed a spoon at Kenshin. "I don't believe I need to remind you how unwise it is to exhaust yourself to the point that you make foolish mistakes."

"Yes," Kenshin admitted. "You are right, that you are."

MacLeod was right about making foolish mistakes; being so deeply asleep that he had been unaware of people fixing a meal had been a definite sign that he'd pushed himself too far. He ran his hands through his hair, discovering that his ponytail had come loose while he slept, and his hair was matted flat to one side of his head. He turned around, found the silver barrette that had fallen out buried in the couch cushions, and pulled his hair back into a rather messy tail.

"Want breakfast?" MacLeod offered.

"Mac's a _great _cook," Richie said, with some enthusiasm. "Ever have challah french toast?"

"And Richie's a great mooch," MacLeod added, teasingly.

"Hey!" Richie protested.

Kenshin watched the byplay between them, a private smile playing around his lips. Richie reminded him of Sano so much sometimes that it hurt. They didn't look much alike, but the mannerisms were there, and the edge of toughness. Except this was a Sano who had become a swordsman, not a brawler; this was also a Sano who had a far darker edge now than his Sanosuke had ever had.

Maybe he was right, maybe he was wrong. He would never know for sure -- except that Tomoe had told him once, in the afterlife, that all his friends were fated to intersect with his life again and again. If Richie had once been Sanosuke, then it was no coincidence that he was here, now, in MacLeod's loft, with Richie.

Maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see.

"Aa, breakfast is not necessary. I will eat after I train. But coffee would be good?" He said, hopefully. Mac's coffee last night had been excellent.

"Yeah, sure." MacLeod rose, dumped out the dregs from the night before, and started a new pot. "You want to stay here, Ken? If you don't mind me getting up early every day for the dojo -- it opens at six-thirty -- you're welcome to crash on my couch."

"Or at my place," Richie said. He added, with a look at Mac, "It's quieter."

"Yes, because I get _so _many visitors all the time," MacLeod sniped at Richie, who grinned back, broadly.

"Thank you, but I would prefer a hotel room, truly I would." Kenshin liked MacLeod, but sleeping in proximity to other Immortals, even those he considered friends, left him just a little edgy. If nothing else, the constant buzz from other Immortals tended to wake him up. He'd get better rest in a room with a door that _locked_ securely, preferably several floors up.

MacLeod nodded in apparent understanding. "Use the dojo to train, if you'd like, though. No katas with edged weapons when we're open to the general public -- it drives my insurance nuts -- but you're welcome to use a shinai, or come by tonight if you want to train with your sword. And I've a couple brand new weight machines, and if you want to lift, Richie will spot you."

"Thank you, MacLeod-san." MacLeod's hospitality made him sorry he had not looked this man up before; this was someone he thought could be a _good _friend. And he had few enough of those among other Immortals.

And there was Richie; Mac and Richie seemed to be the best of friends. RIchie, too, was someone he wanted to know better.

"_Mac_," Mac reminded Kenshin, objecting to the honorific.

Kenshin grinned unapologetically. "Mac."

Richie reached into his pocket, produced his wallet, and wordlessly dug out and handed MacLeod a Loony. MacLeod made a big show of pocketing the dollar coin.

"Am I that predictable?" Kenshin said, torn between glaring and laughing. He just _knew _the bet had been over how long it would take him to tack a 'san' onto MacLeod's name.

"Completely," MacLeod assured him. "And totally."


	6. Chapter 6

Kenshin rented a hotel room a block from MacLeod's dojo, then returned to the dojo where he took up Mac's offer to train happily. The dojo was well equipped and Immortality did _not _mean one could keep in shape without working out.

After an hour of exercise, and a shower, and a bit of banter with the other customers, he headed off in search of breakfast.

"There's a nice coffee shop up the road," MacLeod said, absently -- he was wrapped up in a training session with a tough-looking young woman with tattoos and a broken nose.

"Tammy!" Richie chimed in, from his position on a weight machine that rather resembled a medieval torture device. He was working his pecs.

"Tammy," MacLeod rolled his eyes, "is this waitress Richie has a crush on."

"Uh-huh," Richie bobbed his head in cheerful agreement. "She's cute. Come back and tell me she's not cute."

Kenshin, grinning, held up and tapped his wedding ring. "I make a point of not noticing cute waitresses, Richie. Atsuko would never let me live it down."

"Atsuko is in Iraq. How would she know?"

"_I _would know. Then I would confess to her, and then she would be mad. So this one makes a point of not noticing other women in the first place." He flashed Richie his best rorouni grin.

"Ah, you're no fun." Richie paused a beat. "Well, I suppose that's for the best. Less competition for me ..."

"He's a wise man," MacLeod disagreed with Richie, with a laugh. "Go on, Ken. We'll see you later. Come by for dinner before you take your turn Marshall-watching."

"Aa, I will. Thank you."

---------

The coffee shop was a quarter mile away and Tammy, the waitress, met him at the door. She was slim, a few inches taller than he was, with long black hair and sparkling brown eyes. Despite his words to Richie, Kenshin did indeed notice her. And for her part, she stared at him with keen eyes for a long moment before ushering him to a seat.

She had on a long, swishy skirt, ruffled blouse, and a five yen coin braided into a hemp necklace. _Hippy_, Kenshin thought -- or she would have been, forty years before. She didn't look older than eighteen. Her ki was bright, innocent, and young, and utterly mortal. It was the sort of ki that would have made him look around for the source, a smile on his lips, had she simply walked past him as a stranger on the street.

People like her were rare, and special, and he liked her immediately before she even opened her mouth.

Tammy led him to a table, then regarded him in silence for a moment before saying, soberly, "I believe I know you from somewhere."

"Aa?" he said, surprised. He would have remembered her, of that he was certain. "I haven't been here, to Seacouver, in thirteen years."

She touched the coin at her throat. "A man gave me this, when I was very little. His name was Shinta."

"Uh ..." Kenshin blinked at her. Vaguely, he remembered a little girl -- a cancer patient, in the hospital, and he had expected her to die. "Oro, yes. I remember now. But my name is Kenshin Himura." He added impishly, "I didn't recognize you with hair!"

She burst out laughing, a merry peal. "My God, you must be at least in your thirties. You look so young!"

He resolved to never let her see his current passport, which claimed his age to be twenty-one -- and his legal name to be Shinta Sagara. He said, more seriously, "You lived. I wasn't sure you would."

She had been gravely ill, then -- he'd sensed it and had seen it in the eyes of her nurses. He had thought he was simply being kind to a dying child with one of the brightest kis he had seen in a very long time.

"I wasn't expected to." She tilted her head, studying him. "I recognized you instantly. That's very odd, because I was just a little girl."

Kenshing said, with some amusement, "This one is somewhat distinctive of appearance. Even the memories of a child ought to be clear enough to recognize this one now, that they should be."

"Perhaps." She blew a puff of air out. She tilted her head the other way, and then said, "But your name is really Shinta, is it not?"

Tammy had done the same thing thirteen years ago -- he'd told her his name was Kenshin and she had said _no_, it wasn't. He regarded her uneasily, wondering if she were touched by some sort of magic, or if she'd known him in a past ...

... life.

He had been told his friends were fated to intersect with his life over and over again as they returned to the world in new incarnations. A cold chill ran down his spine as he regarded this woman. As with Richie, the physical resemblance was only slight, but he saw a striking similarity in her eyes and in the essence of her soul; that spark he read as a _ki_.

_Tomoe_.

Her _ki _was different than Tomoe's, but not by much. This woman's ki was ... brighter ... than what he remembered. It was untouched by grief, sorrow, anger. She was an innocent, where Tomoe's heart had already been darkened by sorrow and loss when he had met her. Tammy had grown up in a very different world from his Tomoe; this was a world where she most likely had been loved and sheltered and protected from birth. There had been no war, no blood, no loss of loved ones (at Kenshin's own hand!) for her.

Still ... there was grief there, in her heart, though not so close to the forefront as Tomoe's had been. He remembered with a chill that she had been very close to death, and had likely spent long periods of time in a hospital. She had seen terrible things as a child, certainly. She had been alone, and scared, with equal certainty.

Just ... her life inthe modern day had not been so terrible as his Tomoe's early life had been.

Besides immediately liking her, he found himself feeling rather ferociously protective. He wanted to see that bright ki _remain _bright and happy.

She smiled enigmatically and asked, "You prefer Kenshin, no?"

"I've been Shinta in the past," he admitted, "Kenshin ... one means 'heart' and the other means 'heart of a sword'."

Tomoe had never known his real name, but he knew she had watched out for him from the afterlife. He had used Shinta on a regular

"Ah. Kenshin suits you better, then, I think. -- Are you well?"

He realized he was staring and had likely gone pale. He forced himself to give her a sunny smile, despite the confusion swirling in his heart. "Aa. I'm fine."

"I love your accent." She had a dimple when she grinned, tucked into one cheek. "Anyway! What can I get you to drink, Mr. Himura?"

"Et-to ... coffee." He gave her his sunniest smile and was rewarded with a giggle.

"Just coffee?"

"Uh ... what do you recommend?" He couldn't think; his thoughts were chasing each other in circles. Why her, here, now? This could not possibly be coincidence. Thirteen years ago, before Atsuko, he would have assumed she had been sent for romance. And he would have been amenable to the idea, because it would be as if he had been given a second chance with her.

He closed his eyes, while Tammy went for coffee -- she'd suggested a drink with an Italian sounding name, and he'd assented without even hearing precisely what she had recommended.

There was Atsuko in his life now ... and gods, he loved Atsuko. Her sense of humor, her energy, her determination to change the world by capturing the evil in it inside the lens of her camera. She was like no one else he had ever known.

He loved the way her eyes sparkled when she told a joke; often, he was the butt of those jokes, and that made him love her even more.

Kenshin reached for his cell phone, intending to call Atsuko and at least leave a message on her voice mail -- her cell phone was unreliable at best in Iraq -- but his phone was charging in his hotel room, and his pocket was empty. He sighed, frustrated. Calling Atsuko would have salved his conscious.

Well, he'd call her tonight, and tell her everything about Tammy, including his suspicions about her soul. Atsuko would probably tease him mercilessly, but that was one of the things he loved about her. Half of his very large, extended family treated him with absolute reverence. The other half either didn't completely believe he was who he said he was, or they were honestly frightened of him. Atsuko was one of the few who had, always, treated him like a _person_.

Why Tomoe, here, now? He thought again, as Tammy returned with a frothy beverage in a tall glass mug. Tomoe had been part of his life when he had been a hurting, defiant young man living on the razor's edge of sanity, in desperate need of friendship and love and simple acceptance. He was in a much better place, emotionally, now. He didn't _need _her. Not that he didn't welcome seeing her reincarnation, but he was having a hard time figuring out why the fates would send her to him now.

"Thank you," he murmured, sipping the drink. He tasted milk and cinnamon and chocolate, and a thick layer of whip cream on top. His preference in coffee was black, and plain; the mocha cappuccino had far more calories in it than he would ever have chosen for himself. At just under five feet tall, and with a vested interest in staying in shape, he was very careful about his diet. Immortality was definitely not proof against fat.

"You're welcome!" she beamed at him.

He took a long drink of the mocha anyway. Next time he came -- and he was certain there would be a next time, because there was a mystery here that piqued his curiosity -- he would explain he preferred his coffee slightly less dessert-like.

"Can I get you something else? Our sandwiches are excellent."

The drink was a meal in and of itself. But he found himself agreeing to a club sandwich as well, with avocado on it, and a slice of pie that she suggested with another dimpled grin. He could not say no, not to this woman.

By the time he done with the rather large, and sickeningly sweet, slice of lemon meringue, the breakfast rush had cleared out. She seemed to be the only waitress -- and busboy, or busgirl perhaps, as well, because she cleared dishes away and carried them back to the kitchen as people left. Eventually, he was the only customer (and a very stuffed customer he was) and she wandered back to his table.

"So, what does Mr. Himura have to do here, in town?"

"Just a visit," he said, "I've got friends here I haven't seen in years. Actually, you may know them -- Richie Ryan and Duncan MacLeod?"

"Oh, Richie and Mac. Sure. They're a lot of fun." She paused, then asked, in a low voice, "Can I ask you something?"

He was expecting an awkward or personal question about _him_. But he nodded, "Certainly."

"Are those two boyfriends? They always come here together for lunch and, uh ..."

Kenshin chuckled, because he could easily see how she had reached that conclusion. And he would have paid good money to have been a fly on the wall if she'd summoned the nerve to ask them the question directly. Their reactions would have been most comical. "No, no. Not at all. Just very good friends. Mac has a girlfriend, though I believe Richie is currently single."

"Is he now?" Her eyes lit up. "I wasn't sure. And he's straight?"

"Yeah, very." Kenshin blinked, as a very interesting thought occurred to him. Perhaps she wasn't here for him, at all. Perhaps she was meant to be an, err, sheath for a different blade entirely. The pun made him start to blush, even though he knew that was what they had called Tomoe, for him, almost a century and a half ago. "I think he likes you, too."

Richie gave off a vibe that Kenshin didn't completely like; he liked the _man_, but he was a bit on edge, a bit too harsh and angry. Richie had seen some terrible things, Kenshin suspected; he thought the man had suffered heartbreak and tragedy and betrayal. He needed a woman like this one, who was soft and gentle and kind, to blunt the pain of old wounds.

"_Does_ he now?" She smiled broader. That expression made him almost sag in relief. He could play matchmaker with a completely clear conscience.

He sipped the remnants of his mocha before answering. "He told me you were cute, and asked me to come back and tell him if I agree with him."

She turned an interesting shade of pink. "Did he really?"

"Aa, that he did."

She giggled. His Tomoe would never have giggled, not like that, but still, he saw the resemblance. He wondered how old she was ... surely, not even eighteen. She seemed so very young, even though she was older now than Tomoe had been when she had died.

But still, her eyes ...

"So? Do you think I'm cute?"

"Oro!" He knew he was turning bright pink. "I think I am married and I am more than twice your age, so I shall not answer that question."

She smiled -- she didn't giggle, or laugh, as many women would have done. She simply smiled at him, eyes knowing and very amused.

"Your wife is a lucky woman, Mr. Himura." She carried his empty pie plate towards the kitchen, adding over her shoulder as she left, "Tell Richie I said that he is quite handsome and he should ask me out on a date."

"I'll do that," he assured her, thinking if Richie _didn't _ask this woman out he'd personally strangle the boy dead.


	7. Chapter 7

"She said," Kenshin pointed at Richie with an apple wedge, "she likes you."

Richie squirmed in his seat, looking much younger than his thirty-one years. Kenshin had been teasing him, with some glee, because Richie reacted _so _much like Sano in so many ways. "She's just a kid," Richie said, dismissively. Impudently, he added, "And everyone likes me!"

"Feh. She's older than Kaoru was when I married her, and I was thirty. I think she's about eighteen or so. And nobody will look twice; you look eighteen too." Kenshin nibbled on his piece of apple. After that brunch at the coffee shop, lunch with MacLeod had been an impossibility; fortunately, MacLeod had been content to serve him ice tea and a small snack of an apple. "Anyway, I'm saying ask her out on a date, _not _suggesting you ravish her."

"Did anyone ever tell you that you're such a _girl_?" Richie glowered at Kenshin over his sandwich. He bit a savage bite out of it.

Kenshin gave him a very bright smile. "This one has never heard that before."

MacLeod snickered, from the kitchen, where he was making a sandwich for himself. "No, Richie, he's not a girl. He's a meddling old man." He took a sip from a can of Pepsi.

"That, too," Kenshin pointed the apple at MacLeod. "Though this one would rather be called a girl versus an old man."

"Why's that?" Richie's curiosity compelled him to ask.

"Because girls are prettier." Kenshin said this with an utterly innocent expression, violet eyes wide and naive.

MacLeod was caught with a mouthful of soda. He ended up nearly choking, and was consumed by a helpless coughing fit. He spluttered soda onto the counter and then, shoulders still quivering, grabbed a rag to mop up the mess. It was Kenshin's expression, more than his words, that had caused him to very nearly snort his soda right out his nose.

Honestly, when Kenshin got that look in his eyes, he wasn't sure if Kenshin was serious or not!

"Mou! This one does not know what is funny about that statement." Kenshin persisted, blinking in surprise.

Okay, he was not serious. Probably. MacLeod threw the dishrag at him.

Kenshin, seated, still managed to ducked out of the way with blinding speed, catch the dishrag, and fling it back at Mac without missing a beat. It slapped MacLeod in the side of the head and he caught it before it hit the ground. He had forgotten how blindingly fast and coordinated Kenshin could be and how difficult it was to take him off guard.

Kenshin gave him a huge grin, then. MacLeod shook his head, deciding Kenshin had won this round. "Richie, Ken's right. You ought to ask the girl out."

"Yes." Kenshin nodded happily. "She would say yes. And she seems to be a very nice girl."

"I'm not sure," Richie sighed, "that I'm right for her. Ken, you know the score with us Immortals. Is it fair to pursue a relationship with a woman? And that girl, I am certain, wants a _relationship_."

Kenshin bit a piece out of his apple slice and chewed and swallowed it before responding. He said, very seriously, "Kaoru believed it was worth it. She told me before she died that she had no regrets. So does Atsuko."

"So did Tessa," MacLeod said, unexpectedly. "Richie, ask her out on a date. Ask her out on a _few _dates. Then more, if you seem to be getting along. And if you think there is a chance of a life together with her, tell her what you are, and make sure she understands, and then let her make the decision."

MacLeod sighed, and scrubbed at invisible soda stains on his counter. "I've had a woman or two walk away, but plenty more who found me worth it."

Kenshin added, "Kaoru always used to tease me that she liked having a husband who didn't age ... something about libido, I believe."

MacLeod laughed, sounding surprised at such a statement from Kenshin. "Yes, there is that."

"Okay, I take it back. You're not a girl. You're _definitely _a dirty old man." Richie's shook his head.

"Mou, me?"

"You." Richie pointed a finger at him.

"And this dirty old man believes he has to go relieve his apprentice." Kenshin rose. "Thank you for apple, Macleod ..."

"...Not -san!"

"... san."

MacLeod threw the dishrag at him again, but Kenshin was already moving out of the way. He kept going, darting into the elevator and standing on his toes to reach up for the grate.

"Ken, wait a second." MacLeod pulled a kitchen drawer open.

"Aa?" Kenshin paused, eyes a bit wary. He was cornered in the elevator, and MacLeod had a kitchen full of objects to chuck at him.

"Here," he flipped a key to Kenshin. Kenshin snagged it out of the air. "For the elevator."

Kenshin bobbed him a bow. "I am honored, thank you."

"Ooh, he gave you an elevator key. Now you know you're one of Mac's friends!" Richie teased.

"A true symbol of his trust, that it is." Kenshin, grinning genuinely, jumped up, pulled the grate down, and punched the button for the first floor.

---------------

Chiyoko's buzz washed across Kenshin's consciousness as he climbed the building's fire escape. He could read ki like others read books; hers had changed a little in a century, but not a great deal. She had more confidence and far more conviction in her soul. Once upon a time, she had been hesitant and content to let others decide things for her.

No more.

He wondered what had happened to change that in her. Something bad, likely.

She bore dark scars on her soul; he could feel them. There had been harsh pain and grief in her past. His doing, perhaps; the outcome of her time with him, a century ago, still felt like a bitter failure. Perhaps it always would.

"Hey Kenshin," she said, as he approached.

"Any sign of him?"

"No. It's quiet. I'm beginning to think he skipped town." She shook her head. "Maybe Richie killing his student spooked him. It'd be just like Marshall to flee with his tail between his legs."

"Joe Dawson has some friends watching the airport," Kenshin said, propping his elbows on the wall and staring down into the alley between this building and Marshall's apartment. "If he tries to leave that way, we'll catch him. By road, however, there's not much we can do, and you may be right. He has always been a coward."

"Kenshin," Chiyoko said, "I'm going to take his head."

"This one will not stop you."

"You don't approve, though."

Kenshin glanced over at her. "I am saddened that it has come to this. But I will not stop any of you killing him. He has earned his own fate."

"It'd be wrong to let him continue, Kenshin," Chiyoko said, heavily. "I know why you have sworn never to kill, and I understand it, perhaps more than you'd think. But Kenshin, if we let him live, then he will only cause more pain and grief in the world. It is time to end him, for the sake of the ... crap, that sounds like a big melodramatic speech. But you know what I mean."

"Chiyoko?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of you, and who you have become."

She was silent for a long, long moment. "You wouldn't say that if you knew some of the terrible things I've done, Kenshin. I've dishonored what you taught me."

"I, too, have not always brought honor to the name Hiten Mitsurugi-Ryu." He glanced over at her, then added, "I would rather not itemize my sins in the past, but they were many."

"Don't really want to talk about mine, either." She spoke in a low whisper, fingers clutching the fabric of her t-shirt and eyes averted from him.

"Then let us judge each other on who we are today, and live in the present, and worry not concern ourselves with the past."

"Kaoru teach you that?" Chiyoko asked.

"Ie. Kaoru spoke such words to me when we first met; they echoed what was already in my heart." He gave her a brief smile. "You cannot change the past, you may only steer your path to a brighter future, Chiyoko."

They stood in silence then, for a long moment. It was a comfortable sort of silence; Chiyoko had relaxed quite a bit. Kenshin realized that she truly didn't want to talk about her past, and had been worried he would press her for details. Well, he could imagine the sort of trouble she might have gotten into -- he was far from innocent in the ways of the world -- and decided he didn't want to know any details either. Some things were best left unspoken.

Anyway, she was, if not at peace, at least emotionally stable. Had she been on edge, or full of angst, he might have asked for more information in the hopes of helping her. But -- she didn't need help. So he chose to respect her privacy.

"Lovely day," she said, finally.

"Aa. It is. I love puffy clouds."

"That one looks like a cat."

"That it does."

They were both staring up at the sky when a buzz washed across them from a third Immortal. Chiyoko gasped, stunned; Kenshin reached for his sword by pure reflex. He hadn't felt an aura like that from anyone in a very, very long time. It was powerful and malignant and it probably would have made his gut twist even had it not come from another Immortal. The last time he'd felt something like that ... Shishio, maybe, or Jin-E. That long ago.

"We shouldn't be able to feel a buzz from up here," Chiyoko said. Since the other Immortal doubtless could sense them, she peered over the edge and down into the alley.

He was staring up at them: long, lanky, body, familiar features. He was dressed all in black, black jeans, black -t-shirt, and why did bad guys always wear black? Blond hair.

He had a sword in one hand, and he was not alone.

"You think that's Carrie?" Chiyoko said.

"This one is betting on it." The girl was twisting at the end of his grasp, and they could hear muffled swear words even five stories up.

"HELP!" Drifted up to them. "FUCKING HELP ME!"

And then he punched her and she sagged unconscious.

Kenshin ... snarled. He vaulted over the edge of the roof and landed on the fire escape below. With Chiyoko hot on his heels, but not quite as fast as he was, he clattered down the fire escape three more stories then made a two-story leap to the ground. Having found their objective he was _not _going to let him escape.

However, the man, and it _was _Marshall, was waiting for him. Carrie -- and it was also Carrie, and Gods, they'd been _right _-- was slumped against the wall, unconscious. He hoped unconscious, and not dead, because she was far too young to die. That had been a hard blow.

"You." Kenshin said, voice an angry growl, "I should have taken your head a century ago."

Marshall was radiating the blackest ki that Kenshin had ever felt from another Immortal. He was practically marinated in evil. Chiyoko -- who hadn't been quite so reckless as to jump from two stories up -- skidded to a halt next to him. Angrily, she said to Marshall, "I wish he had, Marshall."

"Chi-chan, what a surprise," Marshall purred.

"Kenshin, will you get Carrie out of here?" Chiyoko said, voice taut.

Kenshin hesitated, sudden worry surging in his heart.

"And Kenshin." Marshall purred. "I had figured you long dead. An Immortal who does not kill ... what a fool that you have always been. You are right in that you should have killed me."

Dismissively, he turned to Chiyoko. "You Challenge me, little one?"

"Right here, right now." Chiyoko pulled her wakizashi.

"With that toy."

"You always were a fool, Marshall," Kenshin said, backing up. But he was uncertain about this; something here was very wrong. Marshall's ki felt like something straight from hell. Marshall must have taken the Quickening of a person who was truly foul to feel like that ...

... words of Darius came back to him. "When an Immortal takes the head of another Immortal," Darius had told him, once, in response to a comment of Kenshin's forgotten to the mists of time, "something of their aspect, their personality and their knowledge and the core of their self ... it is transferred. A long time ago, I killed a very holy man, Kenshin. But he lives on in me."

Chiyoko's small sword looked like a toy next to the claymore that Marshall produced.

Darius had become a force for good after slaying a holy man. Chiyoko was about to kill someone who was the blackest of evil. Kenshin's eyes suddenly widened in alarm.

_Fuck_. The English obscenity came unbidden to his thoughts. It summarized his emotions perfectly.

Decision reached he said, "Chiyoko, let me take this fight."

"What?" She stared at him. "I'm going to take his head."

"No. You're not."

Marshall's lips curled up in a sneer. "What are you going to do, Kenshin, psychoanalyze me? You have to know I'm beyond all that."

"No." Kenshin said, shedding his coat and tossing it aside. He reached up and shrugged out of the sword harness as well. Marshall was being surprisingly chivalrous, he thought, but then, there were laws never to be broken in fights between Immortals. One was that all fights were one on one, and until they resolved _who _was going to fight the challenge, Marshall couldn't fight either of them. "Chiyoko, get out of the way."

"Kenshin, I can't let you do this!" She protested.

"Get. Out. Of. The. Way." He bit each word out, angrily. He didn't need an argument with her to complicate this matter. He was heartsick enough as it was. He was going to violate his ideals, his dreams, everything he'd stood for, for almost a century and a half. He hadn't killed since the day he walked away from the Bakumatsu. But this man had to be stopped, and he could not let Chiyoko be the one to taint herself with his Quickening.

He knew himself. He knew the strength in his own heart. By contrast, Chiyoko, at her core, was weaker than he was -- and she always had been. He knew, somehow, that she would not be able to handle this Quickening and he would end up hunting _her _if she killed Marshall.

"Kenshin, he's _evil_."

"I know."

"This is very amusing, but will _one _of you fight me? I intend to have both your heads, of course, and Kenshin I might _keep _yours with that pretty hair, but ..."

"Chiyoko, _now_." Kenshin growled at her, as he unbuckled his sheath from the sword-harness. It was designed so that it could be hung on his belt samurai-style once he removed the harness. He dropped it there now, and somehow felt more complete with his sword back were it belonged, at his waist.

And in response to the command in his voice, she sheathed her wakizashi with an angry snap of her wrist and stalked over to Carrie. "C'mon, kid," he heard her say, yanking the girl -- who was woozy but apparently conscious -- to her feet. He was aware of them retreating to watch from a safe distance

"Who's the scary red-head?" he heard Carrie say, in a frightened tone of voice.

"Scariest man in the _world_," Chiyoko responded, with approval in _her _voice.

He shot her a smile. He didn't want his friends to be frightened of him. "It will be okay, Chi-chan. You will see."

"Kenshin, be careful," Chiyoko said, low and nervous.

"Aa, I know. -- Chiyoko, my cell phone is in my jacket pocket. Will you call Akane and Soujiro and have them come get Carrie? The number is in the memory."

"Daddy," Carrie said, "Mommy. They're here?"

"Get Carrie out of the way." He glanced over at her; saw tears on the girl's face, and real concern on Chiyoko's. Carrie had old bruises on her face and on her wrists, and there was fear in her eyes -- and defiance. Her spirit was far from broken.

Chiyoko snagged the coat up, then hustled Carrie away with a hand in the small of her back. Chiyoko was a head shorter than Carrie; Kenshin had gotten a brief impression of coltish, half-grown grace, dark hair, blue eyes, and a stubborn jaw.

And then they were alone.

Marshall held his hands up. Mockingly, he said, "Any chance I can convince you to walk away?"

"None." Kenshin preferred not to banter with his opponents. He was going to kill this man, not try to convince him of the evil of his ways. He assumed the familiar pose of Battoujitsu, hands on the sheath and hilt of his sword. Ideally, this would be a quick kill.

"So, I finally meet the famous Hitokiri Battousai," Marshall held his claymore in a relaxed grip. He didn't look or feel frightened. Kenshin had always thought the man a fool but not an idiot; his lack of fear caused him some concern. There was a certain calm confidence to the man's demeanor.

"Kenshin faces you today, not the Battousi."

Marshall feinted at him. Pure reflex caused Kenshin to react with lightning speed, with a blow that would have broken bones had it connected. Except it didn't connect. Marshall dodged and neatly swung a blow at Kenshin with his claymore that Kenshin narrowly deflected with the sheath of the sakabatou.

Alarm sang through Kenshin's veins.

A long time ago he had told Yahiko that a man who fights to defend others cannot lose, because not only his life, but their lives, rides in the balance. His words suddenly came back to him, because he could not lose this fight -- and somehow, some way, Marshall was fighting at a level comparable to his own.

Marshall smirked. "Funny thing about Quickenings. You learn the skills of your opponents. I'm not the weakling that I was. And when I take your head, Kenshin, and that of your little protégé, I'll be unstoppable."

"You have never been a killer," Kenshin said, circling cautiously and thinking hard. Marshall had killed someone with potent fighting skills. He didn't know the school, and therefore he didn't know what to expect. Except, Marshall would cheat. He was certain of that. "Your skills are stolen, not honestly gained. You are tainted, Marshall. You have destroyed yourself."

"So, what? You're going to kill me like a mad dog?"

"Something like that," Kenshin growled.

With absolutely unstoppable speed, Marshall slashed at Kenshin's arm. Kenshin dodged, but too slow -- he realized, belatedly, that he was thinking too much. He felt the sting of sharp steel across his forearm and the sticky hot slick trickle of blood down his wrist.

He had intended to fight this match as Kenshin Himura, rurouni, not as the hitokiri he had once been. But he could not lose; there was far, far too much at stake. And Kenshin Himura could not win against someone with Marshall's new level of skill.

Something woke in him that had been long buried.

"You can walk away, Kenshin," Marshall taunted. "You're not a killer either. You've sworn not to kill. Are your oaths so cheap?."

Kenshin blinked amber eyes. He forced back fear, and love, and hate -- all the emotions that made him human. He was simply a man with a goal now: kill Marshall. Single-minded focus was the only way he could win this match. He let everything else, all other awareness, fade away into the background.

He would win. There was no other way.

---------------------

MacLeod heard the ring of steel on steel as he ran down the alley, heart in his throat. He saw Chiyoko, ahead; the small Immortal had a dark-haired girl by the wrist. MacLeod was relieved to see her; even at a distance, he recognized Carrie. Alive, and apparently reasonably unharmed.

Closer by a few more strides and he felt one of the blackest Immortal auras that he'd sensed in years. He'd run into a few like that, but not many.

Kenshin had been fighting Marshall for at least thirty minutes. Chiyoko had called him, sounding worried and angry and mentioning that Soujiro wasn't answering his phone.

MacLeod was astonished that the fight was still going on; most swordfights were over in minutes. Marshall ... he saw a blinding flurry of blows between Marshall and Kenshin. Marshall was fighting at Kenshin's level, easily.

He stopped next to Chiyoko.

Carrie started to shrink away from him, then visibly summoned courage and stared up with defiant blue eyes. "Who are you?" she demanded. He was impressed by her guts; he didn't know what she'd been through, but she was a tough kid.

"My friend, MacLeod. He won't hurt you." Chiyoko rested a hand on the other girl's arm, then shot him a keen look. He saw real concern there.

Beyond the two of them, the battle raged.

Marshall and Kenshin were both bleeding from multiple minor wounds. MacLeod surveyed them critically, judging strengths and weaknesses.

Both men were breathing hard. Kenshin's silk shirt was stuck to his back by sweat and blood and there was a deep, ragged tear in both the fine cloth and the skin underneath across his shoulders. Marshall was limping slightly but didn't seem to be slowed down.

Kenshin was completely focused on the fight. There was nothing of the goofy, friendly, innocent rurouni in Kenshin's demeanor now. His eyes were flat amber and he moved with predatory intensity. And he spared no attention to anything else except what was directly related to the battle.

This was the Hitokiri Battousai, MacLeod thought. He had seen Kenshin fight before -- there had always been an element of the man he knew when Kenshin had gotten into scrapes with others. Now, though, he scarcely recognized Kenshin in the features of this quietly deadly fighter.

The Hitokiri Battousai made no unnecessary movements. He was quick, controlled, deadly. When Marshall lunged at him, almost too fast to follow, the Battousai flowed aside and took advantage of an opening to make a dangerous slash at Marshall's leg. Marshall hastily blocked in time but the momentum of Kenshin's blow drove Marshall's double-edged blade into the flesh just above his knee.

MacLeod would have sworn the Battousai had planned that to happen.

Marshall snarled, and blades rang against blades again. Blow and counterblow, thrust and dodge. Both men moved almost too fast for the eye to see. He'd never seen a battle like this before; he had lived four hundred years and had never seen such swordsmanship.

"I've never seen Kenshin fight like this before," Chiyoko said. She cast him a worried glance. "Marshall took a dark Quickening, MacLeod. Can you feel it too?"

"I guessed." He closed his eyes, remembering the time that had happened to him -- he remembered what it was to be consumed by hatred and rage and anger. He had killed friends. Had nearly killed Richie. Then he reopened his eyes in alarm, realizing exactly what it meant if Kenshin took Marshall's head ...

He'd seen Chiyoko fight a Challenge, once. He had matched swords with Soujiro Seta. Both of them were among the best swordsmen he had ever known ... and Kenshin had them outclassed. He had wondered, but now he knew, watching them, who would win. If Kenshin went evil, there would be no stopping him. He would end up the last Immortal standing at the end of the Game.

MacLeod's blood felt like icewater in his veins.

Years ago, the first time he had met the little Immortal, Kenshin had leaped aloft in the middle of a rather short fight. He'd come down from above MacLeod and had hit him with a backhanded swing of the sword, breaking his neck. Kenshin had used the dull side of his sword and the result had been nonlethal for an Immortal.

Now he saw the same move again, and it was decisive. Kenshin shouted something as he leaped airborne, and the sword glittered as it swung through the air. He was holding it backwards, and the sharp side went home. Blood sprayed.

Kenshin landed on his feet beyond Marshall's falling body. MacLeod met his eyes -- Kenshin's eyes were flat, gold, dangerous. The eyes of a killer.

"No!" Carrie screamed, though MacLeod wasn't sure if she was upset that Marshall was dead or upset for Kenshin.

"No ..." MacLeod whispered himself.

"Fuck," said Chiyoko, backing up, away from Kenshin.

MacLeod could feel the awesome energy of a Quickening rising.

Kenshin mouthed something, but it was in Japanese, and MacLeod didn't speak the language well enough to read lips. Then he dropped to one knee, snicked sword and scabbard together, and bowed his head. His long red hair fell around his face, but his amber eyes smoldered through those fiery locks.

Lightning struck, rocketing down from the heavens. It was thunderous and Kenshin arched his back and screamed, a hoarse and ragged and desperate scream, as high pitched as a woman's, and from the very bottom of his heart. Again energy coursed through him, and again, but now he was silent, shaking, clutching his sword to his chest, eyes wild. He tried to rise and was beaten down by repeated strikes. Glass exploded from the windows of nearby buildings. Steam burst from a manhole.

Finally, silence.

Kenshin was on his hands and knees in a puddle of steaming blood. He was shaking; his mouth was hanging open and from a hundred feet away MacLeod could see him sucking air into his lungs like he had been drowning.

Then, slowly, moving as if he hurt in every bone, Kenshin stood up. MacLeod stiffened, unsure of what Kenshin was going to do. That had just been one hell of a Quickening -- and Kenshin had never taken a head before. He was, MacLeod judged, highly likely to be unpredictable at best.

Kenshin blinked at them. His eyes were still not his; they were a flat, cold lavender. He said shortly, "Well, that's done."

"Kenshin-papa?" Chiyoko said, hesitantly. "Are you ..."

"Mac, we need to talk." Kenshin tilted his head, and MacLeod then noticed what Kenshin had heard -- the distant sound of sirens. "But later."

"Yeah," MacLeod swallowed, "later would be best. Carrie, I'll take you to your parents' hotel room. Uh ..."

"Chiyoko, you go with her. Mac, I don't think she would be comfortable with you right now." There was terrible, grim knowledge in Kenshin's eyes. He added, "Shoulda taken that bastard's head years ago."

With a cold chill, MacLeod realized that Kenshin's accent was completely gone. And his speech patterns had changed. And he _never _said "Mac" and ... it just didn't sound like Kenshin.

Kenshin fished in his pocket and tossed his car keys to Chiyoko. "Take Carrie in my car. It'd be no good for her to survive Marshall only to die in a bike wreck. Soujiro would have your head."

Mac relaxed, a bit. Whatever Kenshin was now, it wasn't evil. That simple act of caring had proven that to him. He reached a hand out to Kenshin and rested it on the other man's shoulder. "C'mon, Ken. I'll drive you to your hotel room. You need a change of clothes and a bath."

Kenshin shrugged the touch off. It was a casual, impatient gesture, a roll of his shoulders and a brush of his hand. "Don't!" He stopped himself from whatever comment he was about to make and then met Mac's eyes. "We'll talk later, Mac."

------------------


	8. Chapter 8

Kenshin stood under the shower in the hotel room, furiously scrubbing away blood and dirt and the smell of ozone.

He had killed. He had broken his oath and taken a life.

And never ... never ... never had had he killed anyone like that.

Marshall's memories, disjointed and fragmented, and the secondary echoes of other Immortals that the man had killed, or their victims, and so on down the line, filled his head with an angry buzzing like a swarm of bees and it hurt to think of so many dead and now their memories were in his _head _all broken up and jumbled with no context.

He was angry, in a way he'd never been before.

Marshall's memories contained visceral glee at killing ... he knew, now, what it was to kill an enemy and howl joyous triumph and celebrate and find _happiness _in the death of another. The knowledge was intoxicating, that it was possible to kill without guilt or grief.

He scrubbed harder. His skin was turning pink from the friction of the washrag. But his cuts had healed; they had been gone without a scar even before he'd settled into MacLeod's car. That had been a long, awkward drive as well. MacLeod had tried to talk to him; Kenshin, despite knowing that he _needed _to talk, had been unable to form the words. MacLeod was currently sitting outside the bathroom door in his hotel room, having refused to leave Kenshin to his own devices.

The sakabatou, a sword meant as a holy object long ago, had finally been stained with blood from a murder. It was at his feet now, in the tub, water tinged pink as it ran over the metal. He had been unwilling to let go of it, to allow it out of his grasp.

He knelt down, the shower spattering on his back, and picked the sword up.

Unbidden, unwanted, memories from other men swirled through his head. Battles and wars, Challenges and killing. It made him nauseous because so many of them had _liked _to kill. And now he understood why. There was a power to killing, a joy to it. It would be easy -- too easy -- to be seduced by that knowledge.

And his thoughts were going in circles again. He shook his head slowly, as if that motion could rattle loose all the bad thoughts so that the hot water could wash them away.

He needed someone to talk to. Someone ... who would remind him of who he was. He was _not _a murderer. He gritted his teeth and shook his head. He was _not_.

A memory of Marshall's came to the forefront. Marshall, and Chiyoko, and the memory had happened fairly recently because Chiyoko was wearing modern jeans ... and no top. She was seated crosslegged on a bed, naked from the waist up, and giving him -- Marshall -- a sultry look.

Kenshin furiously scrubbed at his face with the washrag.

Darius had warned MacLeod that taking heads would destroy him. Now he understood why ... he felt lost and adrift, convictions shattered, world upended. He wasn't sure if he would ever feel like himself again.

He had tried to call Atsuko even before he'd showered, desperately needing to hear her voice. He had reached her voice mail and left a message to call him; he had sounded abrupt even to his own ears, and wondered what she would make of that message.

Utter and absolute loneliness rose in his heart. He had friends, but so few close ones, and none here. Mac might be a good friend someday -- but not just yet. Richie ... was not Sano, not in the ways that counted right now. There was no shared history there, and Richie didn't know _Kenshin_, even if Kenshin found him tantalizingly like his long-dead friend.

Tammy was just a kid.

Chiyoko ... was his student. He could not appear weak before her. It simply wasn't allowed.

He scrubbed at his face again, thinking hard. What he really wanted was to hold Kaoru in his arms and pour his heart out to her. Kaoru, who not only knew his history -- but who had lived a good bit of it with him. As much as he loved Atsuko, she filled a very different need in his heart than Kaoru had.

He ran a finger down the sharp edge of the blade, feeling the skin catch and tear. It stung, but only for a moment, and the gash healed in seconds. Slitting his wrists likely would not work. He turned off the water.

Kenshin flipped the sword around, caught the hilt against the drain in the bottom of the tub, and let his weight rest on the tip. He bounced once, when the blade caught against his ribs. It slid through, and pain exploded ... and then a wave of dizziness washed over him, and darkness descended.

------------------

The water had stopped running in the bathroom ten minutes before.

MacLeod sat, somewhat uncomfortably, on the edge of the hotel room bed. It was obvious that Kenshin had not taken his first Quickening well simply by the shell-shocked look on his face. He was not sure, however, that he should really be here -- Kenshin might simply need some time alone.

On the other hand, Kenshin hd a lovely wife who MacLeod remembered liking rather a lot. He wanted to make sure Kenshin didn't do anything stupid, like suicide-by-other-Immortal or go become a hermit in a cave for a few centuries. Kenshin needed to stick around -- or go join her somewhere-- and deal with his problems in a sane and rational manner. MacLeod was very concerned that Kenshin might be neither sane nor rational at the moment.

He was usually not hard to read, but right now, the man's soul was in such turmoil that he just couldn't tell _where _Kenshin was coming from.

And Kenshin had expressed a desire to talk, though MacLeod thought there had been a good bit of confusion there.

"Ken?"

No answer from the bathroom.

MacLeod rose, and walked to the door, and rapped on it with his knuckles. "Ken? You want me to order something from room service?"

Nothing.

"Maybe about a gallon of sake? I'll split it with you."

Getting drunk seemed a perfectly acceptable response to Mac. So did baiting Kenshin to get an answer out of him. "Maybe half a gallon. With your size, I expect you have no tolerance ..."

No answer.

He cracked the door an inch. "You know, Ken, it had to be done. And you're probably the only person who could have done it."

Still no answer, but cracking the door brought a puff of steamy air from inside the bathroom -- air that was thickly laced with the odor of blood. "What the fuck?"

Kenshin was in the bathtub, slumped against the wall, sword buried several inches into his chest. The sword was propping him up; his legs and arms dangled limply and his wet red hair hung down into the gory mess in the tub. It was several shades darker than the bright arterial blood. He was obviously dead, though blood still trickled down the blade. Most of it had run down the drain, however.

MacLeod regarded the body with a frown, then awkwardly muscled him upright -- as always, he was surprised by how much heavier Kenshin was than he looked -- and, with a foot planted in Kenshin's chest, separated Kenshin from his sword. It was hard to pull out, catching on bone and cartilage, and MacLeod's stomach rolled in reaction.

Then, after a disgusted glare at the little samurai, he reached in and turned the water on -- ice cold, because he was feeling particularly annoyed -- to wash away the blood on Kenshin and in the tub. The shower head had a hose; he detached it from the wall and washed all the blood down the drain. No sense in alarming a maid.

After several minutes, Kenshin gasped, inhaled, and then hissed in shock at the icy water. One thing Mac would say was that it was nice to see Kenshin come around in minutes rather than hours.

Mac reached out and turned it of and then threw a towel at him. "When you're done feeling sorry for yourself, I'm outside."

Kenshin yanked the towel around his waist and glared without a word.

Mac paused, then added, "What would have happened, Ken, if a hotel maid had found you and not me?"

"My name is Kenshin. I would prefer it you used it."

"Yes, Himura-san," MacLeod allowed some sarcasm to creep into his voice. In extremely formal Japanese he added, "I am very sorry for any offense this humble old warrior may have caused your most perfect self."

Silence, though Kenshin's sullen glare spoke volumes. There was real hostility behind that look, and Mac was glad he was still holding Kenshin's sakabatou.

MacLeod turned and left the bathroom with the sword in hand. Kenshin shoved the door shut after him.

"I'll order room service. What do you want for dinner?" He shoved Kenshin's sword as far under one of the beds as he could; that would slow Kenshin down considerably if he suddenly got violent. MacLeod remembered exactly how vicious he had been when he had taken a dark quickening some years before. He was still amazed that Richie had forgiven him ...

He didn't actually expect Kenshin to answer that. But, after a heavy sigh that he heard all the way through the door, Kenshin said, "Something alcoholic."

"Besides that." Though getting drunk definitely had appeal, Kenshin needed food to replace the blood he'd lost and to restore the energy he had used in healing himself.

"I think I could make a meal of a jug of sake, at the moment, Mac," Kenshin persisted, through the door. MacLeod heard the faintest ghost of humor in the man's voice. It was black humor, but it made him breath a sigh of relief nonetheless. Something of Kenshin remained in there; he could hear it.

"Pizza okay?"

"Yes, I'll eat it."

MacLeod picked up the phone and put in an order for a large pizza and, since the hotel claimed to have no sake, two bottles of decent wine.

Kenshin emerged from the bathroom after another long moment, dressed in a clean pair of jeans but no shirt. His long red hair trailed in a damp, tangled mass down to the middle of his back. He fished through his luggage and found a brush, a silver hair clip and a plain white t-shirt. He returned to the bathroom. Again, he shut the door with a decisive snick.

MacLeod waited patiently; Kenshin could only stall talking to him for so long. The bathroom was small, and boredom, if nothing else, would drive him back out.

He heard the bathroom hair dryer whine to life. When Kenshin reappeared fifteen minutes later his hair was dry and neatly tied back, he'd put the t-shirt on, and he looked ... better. Less angry.

"So you want to explain to me what that was about?" MacLeod asked.

"I wanted to see someone." Kenshin's answer surprised Mac. Belatedly, he remembered Kenshin mentioning seeing dead friends when he died himself. "I ... needed someone to talk to."

"Was it helpful?" MacLeod asked, genuinely curious.

"She wasn't there." Kenshin ran a hand over his face. "Of all people, I saw Hiko Seijuro. Who ripped me apart in numerous creative ways for various offenses. I think killing Marshall was the only thing he approved of, but he made the very valid point that if I'd killed him a century ago, I wouldn't have ... tainted myself ... with what Marshall was now."

"Hiko ...?" MacLeod didn't comment on the 'taint' statement; both of them knew exactly what Kenshin was dealing with right now.

"My sensei, who taught me Hiten Mitsurugi-Ryu. He's not happy with me, but that is nothing unusual. He was the closest thing I had to a father, growing up." Kenshin stood in the window, staring out it. "On the whole, I would much rather have spoken to Kaoru."

He sounded distinctly _pissed_ about Kaoru's absence.

"Was talking to Hiko helpful?"

"Not particularly." Kenshin gave him a baleful look. "Hiko and I haven't seen eye to eye on much since I was thirteen."

"He must have loved you to meet you in the afterlife," MacLeod pointed out.

"Hnnh." Kenshin didn't sound convinced. "Or he loved gloating. He was a very difficult man. However, in many ways he made me who I am today and for that I am grateful. And if not for his teaching -- it is very true that Marshall would not have been stopped by me."

"Kenshin," MacLeod said, quietly, "Chiyoko said she was going to fight Marshall and that you stepped in. Why?"

"Because he would have destroyed her." Kenshin glanced over his shoulder, then turned to face MacLeod. He leaned against the windowsill, arms folded in a somewhat defensive posture that Mac had never seen Kenshin assume before. Kenshin's body language was always very open and confident.

"She's very strong, Kenshin. Don't underestimate her. That one has walked through hell in her life and come out sound of mind on the other side."

"Aa. I'm not. But it is not just the evil that was in Marshall's heart, but also the fact that a part of her loved him." Kenshin bowed his head briefly, then glanced up at MacLeod through his bangs. "I think her taste in men was execrable, but a part of her truly did love him. Unfortunately, she was loving a person who did not exist; he kept his real self from her and he was cheating on her at almost every turn. Even so, it would have ... hurt her ... to kill him. And I am not sure which would have been worse -- gaining the knowledge of how unfaithful he was, or the real pain of killing someone who I know she still loves on some level."

He hesitated, then added, "I know about living through hell, Mac. And it is a simple fact that in this, I am stronger than Chiyoko."

He frowned. "But Mac ... it is eating me up, inside. What Marshall was ... I understand now that he _enjoyed _what he was. He was a very bad man, but he did not see himself as such. He saw himself as a _good _man." Kenshin shook his head slowly. "Not just in his liking for young women -- and girlish men, as I already knew --"

Kenshin visibly shuddered.

"-- but in other things. He was a weak, nasty, vile man. And yet he was convinced in his heart and soul that he was _good_. It ... made me realize ... how easy it is to deceive oneself. And how easy it is to cross over from good to evil without ever even realizing it." Kenshin ran a hand over his face, sighed, and then said so softly that MacLeod barely heard him, "I am worried I will follow in his footsteps now. The next time I kill, it will be easier. And I will kill again; I know this, now. There are times when one cannot stand aside and allow evil to prevail."

"You can't walk alone in this, Kenshin. Trust your friends."

"Aa. My friends." Kenshin fingered his wedding ring, rolling it around his finger. "My friends. I've left Atsuko several messages and she hasn't called me back yet."

He sounded genuinely concerned; Mac shot him a worried look of his own. Kenshin lifted one shoulder in a partial shrug. "She's living her life as she wants to, Macleod-san. I am afraid for her, often, but most likely she is simply in an area of the country where there is no phone service."

"Doesn't she have a satellite phone?"

Kenshin was completely silent and did not answer that question. MacLeod was sorry he had asked it. He changed the subject. "Well. One thing I'm not worried about is you turning evil, Himura-san ... you've a stronger moral compass than almost anyone I know."

"You're lying," Kenshin said. "The thought of me turning evil frightens you, MacLeod. And --" Kenshin bowed his head. "I am sorry for rebuking you, earlier. Call me Ken. I prefer it, from you."

MacLeod hesitated, hearing real pain in the man's voice. His comment, _my friends_, was strong in his memory. MacLeod wondered how many good friends Kenshin really had -- it would be hard, for an Immortal who looked as young as he did to keep close ties among mortals for long. His family obviously knew who he was, but family wasn't the same thing as _friends_. He obviously loved Atsuko deeply, but she was unavailable much of the time.

"A deal, then, Kenshin. I'll call you Ken if you'll call me Mac."

Kenshin gave him a measuring look with violet eyes. There was real hesitation there. MacLeod thought he understood that; Kenshin's tendency to use honorifics even when they were not required and even unwanted was a way of keeping people at arm's length. And, also, he didn't seem to have the highest opinion of himself and using honorifics and, in Japanese, downright humble forms of personal pronouns, was a symptom of his miserable self esteem.

If he started using _Mac _on a regular basis it meant that he was acknowledging he was an equal to Mac. It was more about how Kenshin perceived himself than anything about Mac.

"Mac," Kenshin said, slowly. "And I promise, I will find a way to end myself forever before I ever join the dark side."

"May the force be with you, then," MacLeod teased.

Kenshin snorted a surprised laugh. "Bad analogy, Mac. I might end up being Anakin."

"Oh, no, you're _so_ Luke."

"Yoda, maybe." Kenshin grinned. It was a real grin, thought it lasted for just for a second. "I'm too short for Luke, and given what terrible things I've been known to do to English when I'm trying to say something in a hurry ..."

Their pizza and booze showed up at that moment. Perhaps deliberately, the rest of the evening was spent discussing pop culture -- Mac was not surprised, somehow, to find that Kenshin was a huge movie buff, with a strong preference for escapist fantasies and chick flicks.

And they got drunk. Very, very drunk.

MacLeod tried to pretend he didn't see the dark shadows lingering in Kenshin's eyes. Perhaps Kenshin was also trying to ignore the darkness in his heart. He didn't know.

--------------------


	9. Chapter 9

Author's notes -- this chapter is probably not safe for work.

---------

Soujiro was trying to retrieve a voice mail from his cel phone, with little success because he was not good with technology, when someone knocked at his hotel room door and a buzz washed across them at almost the same time. He glanced at his wife -- who was out cold on the bed, having finally fallen asleep. She mumbled under her breath but didn't stir.

He rose and hurried to the door, katana in hand. Likely it was one of his -- well, friends was too strong a term, but _allies_. But no sense taking chances. He had far more enemies than allies.

In the hall he found the short Japanese Immortal Chiyoko ... to his astonished delight and utter relief, and his daughter. Carrie had few bruises on her face, but she also had a stubbornly proud set to her jaw. He stared at her for a long, long moment. "Carrie ...?"

"Souji, what is it?" his wife asked, sleepily, from behind him, in Japanese.

"It's Carrie."

"News on her?"

"No, her." He wasn't exactly fond of demonstrative gestures of affection, but he reached out and hugged her, and Carrie responded with a small but sharp sound and a hug back.

Carrie. Alive. Safe.

And in his arms, where he could protect her.

A surge of utter relief made him weak at his knees; he leaned against the door jamb so she wouldn't know just how stunned he was to have her so unexpectedly back and didn't let go even when she wordlessly tried to wriggle free.

Alive. Safe. He could die today and be happy.

"CARRIE!" Atsuko nearly tackled both of them in a ferocious hug. "Carrie, you're alive! Alive! I love you so much and I was so scared and ..."

"I'm fine!" Carrie sounded almost embarrassed, Souji thought. Spurred into motion by Akane's display of joy, he ushered them both into the hotel room. Chiyoko followed, standing diffidently back.

Soujiro stepped back and regarded his daughter critically. "Did he hurt you?"

"No, father. A few bruises," she gestured at her face, she had a blooming shiner. "But you've given me worse training. It's nothing."

"Did he ..." He didn't know how to ask, yet he had to know. Had he done the unimaginable to his daughter?

She screwed her face up. With extreme disgust, and with total frankness, she said, "That was one very slimy man. He tried to talk me into sex with him. I told him that would be statutory rape and he could go to jail for a really long time. He didn't like that much."

Soujiro barked a laugh -- not exactly a surprised laugh, because this was his daughter, but an amused one. He nodded at Chiyoko, who was standing behind Carrie. "Did you get the slimy man's head, Chiyoko?"

"No, Kenshin did." Chiyoko didn't sound happy about this.

Soujiro took a moment to contemplate that. Kenshin had killed. He'd always suspected the Battousai still had it in him. While he was still figuring out what to think about that, Akane said, "You have to admit, he was a bit provoked. Kenshin takes his oath to protect us very seriously."

"Marshall was evil, Soujiro-san, Aunt Akane. He was really and truly evil and Kenshin has taken that evil into himself." Chiyoko sighed heavily. "I'm glad Carrie's fine. I'm worried about Kenshin."

"Do you think ...?" Akane trailed off, dismay that Soujiro shared visble on her face. He _really _didn't want to face Kenshin in a fight where Kenshin was out for his head. It'd be one hell of a Quickening if he won, but he stood a more than equal chance of losing.

And, while he'd taken his share of bad guys down, he didn't especially want to take in that sort of evil. Because he knew from bitter experience just what it could do to a man.

"Judging by his expression, he was not doing good emotionally, but he's not evil. The day that Kenshin goes over to the dark side is the day pigs fly." Chiyoko touched Carrie's shoulder, drawing her attention. "Carrie, you're a smart kid to see through that asshole so quickly. It took me almost a century."

Carrie snorted. "I didn't like him from the moment I saw him. It's like I told you before, Chiyoko: Marshall was just one of those people you _know _are evil. It was like I'd already seen him being evil and nothing he did or said surprised me. Not even when he started making passes at me."

She grinned, suddenly, at a memory. "I told him he needed a sheep. That's when he gave me this, yesterday." She gestured at her cheek, which was also bruised.

Chiyoko barked a surprised laugh, from behind her. "I would have paid money to be a fly on the wall when you said that, kiddo. He had to have blown a gasket."

Akane burst out crying. "Carrie, honey, I'm so sorry ..."

She hugged Carrie again. Carrie said, sounding embarrassed, "I'm okay, Mom. Really."

Soujiro, cynically, thought that there was no _way _that Carrie was 'okay'. She was a tough kid, but not this tough. The reaction would come later. He _knew _it. Likely, knowing his daughter, it wasn't going to be a pleasant reaction.

"It's not okay!" Akane wailed. "They took you away and they hurt you and it's okay to be upset and ..."

"I'm fine!" Carrie insisted. "That Frank Kerral guy, he got me 'cause he surprised me, and he tied me up ..."

"Kerral's dead. One of MacLeod's friends killed him," Chiyoko explained casually.

Carrie blinked. "He is?"

"He attacked Richie," Soujiro added, because he knew this was important to Akane even if he failed to see the distinction of killing a bad man in self defense or just _killing _him: both resulted in the same desirable end. "So, it was in self defense."

"Oh. Richie's an Immortal?" Carrie said, then shook her head. "The man was a loose cannon, so it doesn't surprise me or nothing ..."

"... anything ..." Soujiro corrected, absently, out of long and established habit.

"_Nothing_," Carrie insisted and glared up at him quite rudely, also a long and established habit. She irritated him; English was her first language and yet she still managed to mangle it with regular indifference. Also, she lacked the respect she should have towards her father, and no amount of rebukes and chastisements on his part had ever dampened that fighting spirit.

She'd do well, as an Immortal, he thought. If he didn't personally kill her himself. She would need that stubborn attitude to survive in a world with people who would kill her simply for her head.

"Soujiro, don't nag on her." Akane swatted him in the back of the head.

"It's okay, Mom. It ... it's okay. He can nag." Carrie smiled bravely now, but he saw her chin quiver. Yes, there would be a reaction later.

Chiyoko spoke up, "I'll be going, then. -- Carrie-chan, I'll send you the postcards I promised. Okay, kiddo?"

"Yeah. Yeah."

Chiyoko let herself out of the hotel room. Carrie gazed after the door and said after a moment, "Dad, is that what I'd be like if Marshall had killed me? 'Cause that's what he wanted to do. Kill me so I wouldn't ever get older and so I'd always be his. He said so."

Soujiro's gut clenched in anger at the man. "Bet he got a shock that you weren't a submissive kid. He didn't hurt you?"

"No. He said he wasn't gonna force me. That I'd want him willingly. Pervert." Carrie folded her arms. She was angry, and not the least bit embarrassed. Soujiro's heart swelled with pride at her attitude. "Arrogant son of a bitch."

"Language," he said, mildly.

"Soujiro!" Akane smacked him again. "Let her swear. She's earned it."

"Yeah, dad, lemme fucking swear." Carrie glared at him.

He really didn't like to touch people, and showing affection was incredibly difficult, even to his own daughter. Still, he hugged her again, folding her against his chest. "Carrie, I was terrified he had killed you."

"I'm fine Dad, really."

She wasn't. He knew it. But at least she was alive, and safe.

------------------

Several hours later, MacLeod was nursing both a cup of strong coffee and the beginnings of a bad hangover -- he wasn't sober enough yet to be really hung over -- when his landline phone rang. He lurched to his feet, feeling rather clumsy and all sorts of miserable, and picked the receiver up off the wall. "Yeh."

"Mr. MacLeod?" A woman's voice said -- he identified a very interesting accent that seemed to be a combination of Japanese and British. It was a rich smoker's voice, roughened by years of age from what he remembered more than a decade ago, but he didn't have much trouble guessing who this was. "This is Akane Himura."

"Gnnnh." He responded, and realized that was incoherent, and added, "Good morning."

"Oh dear, did I wake you up?" She sounded truly dismayed. "I didn't check the local time -- I just got off a plane."

"Ngg. Gotta open the dojo in fifteen minutes. What's up?" Opening the dojo was going to consist of unlocking the doors and going back to bed.

He hoped Kenshin hadn't done anything spectacularly stupid from the time he'd last seen the little Immortal, around two AM, and now, only four hours and fifteen minutes later.

He was _not _looking forward to opening the dojo doors to his customers. He'd had less than four hours of sleep. And they'd drank enough that he was still most certainly feeling it, and he was hoping his customers wouldn't notice before he could beat a retreat to his room.

Sometime today he'd have to retrieve his car from the hotel garage. Maybe he could bribe Richie to do it. Amanda, he didn't trust not to joy ride in it.

Akane said, "I was just hoping you could tell me where Kenshin's staying. I wanted to surprise him."

"Uh, he talk to you?" He contemplated telling her everything that happened to her.

"I haven't spoken to him in several days. I was traveling, and my cell phone battery's dead and I haven't had a chance to recharge it and I figured I'd see him soon enough anyway."

_Ditz_, he diagnosed. "He's worried about you. He's been trying to reach you." He gave her the location of the hotel and the room number. And he decided to let Kenshin tell his own stories.

"Thank you, Mr. Macleod!" She said, sounding cheerfully irrepressible.

---------------

Kenshin was staying in a nondescript chain hotel in a working class neighborhood; Atsuko towed a borrowed luggage cart down a hall that smelled vaguely of mildew and dirty carpet and found room 703. It was two doors down from the elevator, so her walk was not far. She was not surprised that Kenshin had gotten a room on the top floor, or that his room was close to both the elevator and the stairs.

The room was both defensible, and escapable.

He'd lived through so many wars, battles, fights, and various assassination attempts over a century and a half of life that protection was second-nature for Kenshin.

She knocked, surprised he hadn't opened the door when he approached. Kenshin was almost impossible to catch off guard. He had some sort of weird empathic ability to recognize people as they approached -- she distinctly remembered playing hide and seek with him, and the other children, when she herself had been a child. It had been largely an exercise in frustration. He was very good at hiding, and downright spooky at _finding_.

The door opened, after a minute.

"_Atsuko_," he breathed, in a tone of voice that indicated that he was very surprised and very happy to see her.

He also sounded more than a bit drunk, and she smelled sour wine on his breath. His eyes had dark shadows lurking in them, and he was dressed only in a pair of boxers -- she was amazed he'd opened the door that way. But then, he would have known it was her as soon as he'd woken and would also have known that no one else was in sight.

But still, he was usually so very modest that she was able to make him furiously blush simply by holding his hand in front of others. It shocked her now to see him practically naked, in the doorway.

"Kenshin?"

"Gods, I am very glad to see you." He was speaking in Japanese, not English. "Gods, Atsuko."

She stepped inside, towing her luggage after her, and as soon as the door was shut he had his arms around her and his face buried in her shoulder. He clung to her, wordlessly holding on to her, as if he had been drowning.

"Kenshin, what's wrong?"

_Did someone die_? she wondered, a little desperately. She knew he'd tried to reach her but she hadn't called him back because she wanted this to be a pleasant surprise.

"Gods, Atsuko ..." he repeated, strong arms clutching her close to his chest. "I've needed you so much."

_That _was an admission that was as out-of-character as the boxer shorts. While Kenshin lived to be needed by others, he rarely admitted to his own feelings when they involved wanting comfort from others. She tightened her grip on him. "Koi, what's wrong? Has someone passed away?"

He made a muffled noise that almost sounded like a sob and wrenched out of her arms. She watched, dismayed, as he walked to the window -- he was definitely not sober, she could tell by his somewhat clumsy gait -- and stared out the window. She hoped the glazing on the windows was reflective from the outside, otherwise, Kenshin was giving the whole world a seventh-story view of his magenta boxer shorts.

"Kenshin, you're scaring me. _What is wrong_?"

He stood with his back to her, fingers clenched into fists, back as ramrod straight as his inebriated state would allow. Kenshin was generally a cheerful drunk -- he got silly and playful and told funny stories with some sake or a few beers into him. Get him drunker and he might sing as well, which was scary -- Kenshin was many things, but musically gifted wasn't one of them.

Kenshin singing karaoke was a sight to behold. And film. Among her cherished possessions was a tape of Kenshin, pleasantly buzzed at a family gathering, singing with all his heart, 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow' ... very off key.

It would have been an useful tape for blackmail if it wasn't so much fun to _show _it to people.

In all the decades she'd known him, she'd never seen him be an angry, morose, needy drunk before. Which seemed to be his mood at the moment. Something bad had happened, that was absolutely certain.

"Somebody's dead," he confirmed, then quickly, before she could more than just begin to run through a mental inventory of friends and family, he added, "I killed him."

_Oh_.

"Provoked, I take it?" Her eyes were drawn to the sword that lay on the bed, next to the tangled covers where he'd obviously been sleeping before she arried.

"Very." His words were slurred by drink and, she suspected, exhaustion. She was willing to bet by the way his hair was flattened on one side of his head that he'd been asleep for awhile when she had arrived. She wondered just how drunk he'd gotten the night before to still be a few sheets to the wind. "Very, very, very. Provoked. Not sure if I'm more upset that I broke my oath, or because I didn't do it a century ago when I had the chance."

"Another Immortal?"

"Marshall. An asshole from my past." He used the English word for _asshole_. She heard pain and grief in his words, despite the uncharacteristic harshness.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" She wrapped her arms around him from behind and pulled him back against her. Kenshin would have objected strongly to that sort of an embrace had she ever tried it in public -- at least partly because she was a good six inches taller than he was and it looked unmanly -- but right now, he simply leaned back against her, wordlessly sagging into her grip.

One of the most surprising things that she had learned about Kenshin when he had chosen to admit he needed, and loved, her was how much of his wise, cheerful, strong persona was an act. Oh -- he was wise, sure. And he had a core of inner strength unlike anyone she'd ever known before in her life. And his cheerfulness _was _honest, much of the time. He was naturally good-natured and sunny in outlook.

But sometimes -- more often than most people suspected -- he was just putting on an act for the benefit of his friends and family. And sometimes, the masks slipped away. And sometimes, there was a very different Kenshin lurking underneath.

Family legend said he'd nearly starved himself to death once, in grief, thinking Kaoru dead.

She believed the legends.

There was a part of Kenshin that he kept carefully hidden away from nearly everyone -- only after they had been married for a few years had he become comfortable enough with her to totally let his guard down and show his inner self. That trust had come very gradually over the years -- no great epiphany, just small steps as he learned he could rely upon her completely.

"Kenshin," she said, "Koishii. Do you want to talk about it?"

He twisted around in her arms and clung to her. "Not really." His voice was a low, miserable whisper. "There's not much to be said, Atsuko."

"Hey."

He looked up at her, amethyst eyes deep and dark with grief. She kissed him deeply, then, giving what comfort she could this way.

In the beginning, between them, it had been weird to be with a man so much shorter than she was -- at five seven, she was tall for a Japanese woman. Legacy, Kenshin teased her, of a great-grandfather who'd been a veritable giant at well over six feet tall, a century before.

She had not thought the height difference between them would bother her, but it had, a bit. He had to reach up to put his arms around her neck to kiss her, and she had to bend over, just a bit. She'd long gotten used to this -- and anyway, Kenshin's confidence and personality made it easy to forget how small he was.

But somehow, he seemed smaller this morning.

She guided him towards the bed, and managed to shed her clothes as she went. He pushed her down, sudden urgency and need in his movements. "Atsuko," he murmured, "Gods, I've needed this."

Atsuko had been far from chaste before she'd met Kenshin; she liked men quite a lot. But after Kenshin ... she'd had no desire for anyone else. He was the best lover she'd ever had, both because she loved him so very much and because he was incredible in bed. So, she as a little surprised by the desperation in his movements ... normally, he'd have her crying out for him, ready and eager.

She was far from ready when he shoved her down and entered her, roughly, and she cried out in annoyed pain. It _hurt_. "Kenshin! Idiot! Hey!"

He stopped, freezing in place, hands propped on either side of her, wine breath puffing over her face.

"Damnit, what's _wrong _with you?" She shoved at his chest. She was shocked because he was always the most considerate of lovers.

His expression was stricken. She'd never seen him look so lost and her anger turned to real concern in a flash. He stammered, sounding horrified, "I'm sorry. Atsuko, I'm sorry ... I ..." To her utter shock, tears welled in his eyes. "I hurt you ..."

"Kenshin," she reached up and wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him down to her chest. "It's okay. It's okay."

He sobbed, miserably, and tried to pull away when she said it was okay. Kenshin didn't ever cry; her heart was breaking for him. She wouldn't let him go -- and he was still inside her, and still hard. She twitched her hips upward, and murmured, "C'mon, finish what you started. Or I'll really be mad."

Crying, he started to thrust. It hurt again, at first, before her body adjusted, but she was careful to not let him know. His tears spattered hot against her shoulder and he finished quickly with none of his usually phenomenal self control.

When he was done, he started to pull away -- she knew if she let him go he'd dress and leave in humiliation. So she continued to hold onto him. "Shh. Shh, Koishii. It's okay. It really is okay."

He buried his face in her shoulder, then, and whispered, "I love you so much ..." and sobbed brokenly.

"Shh."

He was so drunk -- she wanted to smack him for getting this drunk, because some of his misery was the booze talking, she thought. Getting to the bottom of his upset would probably be useless until he was sober. She held him close instead and just let him cry his grief out.

Eventually, he fell asleep in her arms, sprawled across her, head tucked under her chin. And she slept too, an arm around him, holding him close and tight to her.

Her last thought was that she was very glad she'd decided to meet with him here; he wouldn't have to face whatever his problems were alone. The thought of him dealing with this alone threatened to break her heart.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's notes Apologies for the Atsuko/Akane confusion. I'm mildly dysgraphic and aphasic and the names are similar enough that they give me absolute fits. I really should have factored that in, in naming them ... anyway, I know one more thing to proofread for now.

----------------

Atsuko woke to the smell of coffee.

She blinked, disoriented and groggy. She wasn't even sure how many time zones there _were _between Baghdad and Seacouver, and she'd spent the last forty-eight hours either in an airplane or waiting for one. What the hell time was it, anyway? Her brain hurt from lingering exhaustion.

Mm, coffee ... sometimes she thought if you slit her wrists she'd bleed expresso.

She lifted her head from the pillow and squinted through sleep-gritty eyes.

The hotel room had a small table in one corner. Kenshin was seated at it, nursing the coffee she had smelled, and frowning. He jerked around when she sat up, surprising her. She would have thought that he would have sensed the change in her ki as she woke.

"Mm. What time is it?"

He glanced at his watch. "Just past noon."

"How long have you been up?"

"Couple of hours."

"Head hurt?"

He gave her a look that said that was a remarkably stupid question.

"There's Tylenol in my bags if you want some."

"I found it."

"Oh." She hadn't hear him moving around. She must have been sleepier than she thought, or he'd been in stealth mode.

"I didn't want to disturb you. Figured you must be exhausted." He ducked his head, then asked quietly, "Do you ... need some?"

She knew exactly what he was talking about. He sounded incredibly miserable when he said it. She snorted. "No. You weren't _that _rough, sweetheart."

"Umm. Good."

Silence stretched between them, uncomfortable. She wanted to ask him what the fuck was wrong with him, and he clearly was uncomfortable even talking to her at the moment. She sighed and rose and padded naked to the table where he sat. He stared up at her, then looked away with a harsh swallow.

"Kenshin, what happened?"

"Put some clothes on. I can't concentrate ..." he glanced sharply at her, then away. His words were clipped and should have felt like a rejection, but didn't because there was so much pain behind them. She saw _want _and _need _in that look, but guessed that he wouldn't act on his desires even if she tried to sway him. Kenshin was powerfully talented at self denial.

"Okay." She rummaged in her bags and found shorts and a t-shirt, then returned to the table. She was not going to give it a rest. Instead, she reached out to the coffee pot sitting on the table, and filled Kenshin's cup back up, then unwrapped one of the plastic-wrapped styrofoam cups for herself and poured some for herself. The coffee was rich, black, and probably not the hotel's complimentary grounds -- Kenshin carried his own supply when he traveled.

He watched her without a word.

"Are you glad I came?"

"Somewhat." He sighed, and drained the coffee in one long swallow. She watched his adam's apple bob up and down. "I'm not happy about you seeing me in this state."

"You know you can trust me."

"It's not _you _I mistrust." His voice was hoarse and nasal, but given how long he'd cried the night before, she wasn't surprised. He probably had a stuffy nose and a sinus headache on top of the hangover. She was still shocked that Kenshin -- Kenshin! -- had broken down like that.

"You mistrust yourself."

"Hai."

"Why?"

He poured the dregs in the pot into his cup and then swallowed that, then bent over and pulled a small bag of coffee grounds out of a duffle bag beside his chair. He made another pot while she waited in silence for an answer. He'd respond when he mustered his thoughts; she gave him time to think in silence.

She had been right about the gourmet coffee -- the grounds came from a plastic bag that proudly proclaimed, "Seacouver's Best Little Coffee House!" on it.

Finally, after breaking open a bottle of complimentary bottled water and dumping it into the coffee machine, he said, "I broke my oath never to kill again, Atsuko."

"Did you have a choice?"

"There is always a choice."

"Then did you make the best decision?"

He was silent again, staring at the percolating coffee pot. Moments later he said, "Yes."

"Then go on with your life." She reached a hand out and rested it on his on the table. He glanced up at her when she touched him. "Sweetheart, if I were in your shoes and I had killed someone, what would you tell me."

Amethyst eyes met hers. "You misunderstand me, Atsuko. I am not sorry I killed him."

"Then what?"

He looked away. Softly, he said, "In killing him, something in me died. I no longer feel like me, Atsuko. Maybe I will never be the same man again that I was."

He rose, suddenly, and walked to the bathroom, and dumped his cup of coffee into the toilet. And then he threw up after it, wet sick miserable sounds emanating from the bathroom. She wasn't sure if that was from hangover or emotion, but she hurried after him and crouched beside him held his ponytail back, her own stomach twisting, as he emptied his guts and then heaved and heaved for minutes more.

Finally he slumped back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand -- and wiped it again with a wet washrag when she handed it to him. He stared up at her, looking small and so much not like Kenshin that it broke her heart.

"Sweetheart," she said, offering him a hand up. "Will you promise me one thing?"

"Anything. Of course."

"No more booze for awhile."

He gave her an incredulous look, eyes narrowing. His expression said, _You must be joking_. "That's not something you need to extract a promise from me for," he said, dryly, "I think dealing with this sober is an excellent plan. Mac was here last night, and he ordered wine with pizza."

_And MacLeod forgot to factor in the fact that Kenshin is half his size when splitting the bottle_, Atsuko filled in the blanks. She'd seen that happen plenty of times before with Kenshin, when they were hanging out with friends -- particularly large Western friends. It was simple biology. Kenshin's small body mass and even lower bodyfat ratio meant his tolerance for alcohol was very low. Yet good manners meant that Kenshin was served amounts equal to everyone else's. And politeness also meant that Kenshin would drink what was poured for him.

He confessed in a low tone of voice, "Getting drunk seemed a brilliant idea last night, that it did."

"Yeah, well, at least save some of the bottle for me next time."

He said ruefully, "There were two bottles. I had one all by myself."

"Good thing you're Immortal." She let out a low whistle, impressed despite herself.

He shrugged. Then he said, "I was going to go down and see Mac for a bit. Want to come?"

She wasn't about to let him out of her sight, considering the mood he was in. "Yeah. Just let me take a shower and clean up. How's Tessa, by the way?"

Kenshin froze. "Gods, Atsuko, I forgot to tell you. I'm sorry, I just found out two days ago that she died ... she died a long time ago, apparently."

"Oh." Atsuko had only know the woman for a few short days thirteen years before, but she had been struck by the commonality of their lives: both of them in love with Immortal men. She had been looking forward to talking to her again.

"Apparently it was a mugging. Just random, stupid violence." He frowned. "Mac's new girlfriend is named Amanda, except I don't think she's exactly new. Someone from his past. She's Immortal."

"I can't believe Tessa's dead. I was looking forward to seeing her ..." Atsuko felt like she'd been gut punched. "That's too bad."

"Aa, that it is."

----------------

Methos showed up at the dojo just past noon. MacLeod was not surprised to see him, and in fact, had been expected him to come slinking in sooner or later. The ancient Immortal slipped through the dojo doors and skirted several tough young men -- men who said an assortment of hassling and rude things to Methos, because Methos appeared to be an outsider to their world of martial arts and testosterone.

He ignored them, as fit his mild, scholarly persona. Mac wondered absently, watching Methos cut around the wrestling matt, what his students would think if they knew the man they were razzing was one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

"Hey, Brit-boy, betcher couldn't last ten seconds in the ring with me!" Danny, a particularly obnoxious street brat who was one of Richie's current crop of students, teased.

Methos paused, raised an eyebrow, and for a moment MacLeod had hope that Methos would show the punk up. It would be amusing, and Methos could do it, easily. He might be dressed in dockers, loafers, and a sweater, and look like a nerdy researcher, but the man was pretty damn good at various fighting disciplines. He had five thousand years of practice, after all.

But Methos simply regarded Danny like Danny was a particularly interesting bug for a moment, then proceeded on the Mac's office. He pushed the door shut after him.

"What's up, Methos?" MacLeod asked.

His friend said shortly, "Battousai."

"Ken?"

"Yeah."

"So," MacLeod said, leaning back in his chair and putting a foot up on the table, "How much dirt did you dig up about him?"

Methos, with his Watcher connections, had almost certainly spent the last two days doing heavy research on Kenshin. MacLeod had been expecting it. Likely Methos was going to tell him that Kenshin had a dark past and a few skeletons in his closet. MacLeod already had a few choice replies to any revelation of that nature; Methos had a whole army of skeletons in his history.

"None, which is why I'm here." Methos ran a hand over his face. "Mac, I don't often bear grudges; you know that. But he ..."

Methos looked sharply away. His jaw worked and he swallowed; there was a stubborn, angry look on his face.

"It was the middle of a war," MacLeod said, calmly. Kenshin had _no _major crimes in his history? Other than being a soldier and assassin, which Mac already knew about and didn't consider crimes because he was fighting for his side? He was surprised. The man's whole guilt complex had implied to Mac that he had a lot more to atone for. "He was sent to assassinate you."

"Yeah. I was on the wrong side of things. And I had married a woman with two children ... I loved those boys. I could forgive him for killing her, because it was nothing personal. But there was no reason to kill the boys."

"Except for the fact that it was self defense," MacLeod said, "and they attacked him in defense of you and once they saw him he had a duty to his country to eliminate any witnesses. He was incredibly valuable as a hitokiri, Adam; he was certainly under orders not to allow anyone to live who could identify him. Including women and children."

"I was already dead. I didn't know that they fought him." Methos looked up. "They should have run!"

MacLeod said, "He could have killed you a couple of days ago. He didn't. And not because I'd have had his hide for the damage to my flat. He doesn't kill needlessly."

"I know." Methos sagged into a chair, and pinched the bridge of his nose, and said, "I've spent the last two days looking up information on the guy, because he should have killed me and he didn't. Five thousand years old, and I could have lost my life to an skinny baby Immortal with girly hair."

"Heh. First time I met Kenshin he broke my neck with the dull side of his sword, so don't feel bad." MacLeod leaned back in his chair. "_And _he stole the Thunderbird."

"Ho! That makes me feel so much better, my friend." Methos shook his head. "Anyway. Turns out the shrimp is some sort of Immortal saint. He was a good friend of Darius, of all people. And Hideo, in Japan, though that may be a case of mutually keeping an eye on one another, given this is Hideo."

"Likely," MacLeod agreed. Hideo was almost as paranoid as Methos.

Methos sighed. "Part of me wants to kill him still. The other part of me ... Mac, he's a good guy. He's probably one of the best of us, if the records I've found are right. And ... well, what's the point in bearing a century and a half old grudge?"

MacLeod grinned, said nothing. He knew Methos well enough to know that the old man was at least three parts coward. He could be inspired to bravery with the appropriate level of guilt tripping, but mostly, he preferred to avoid trouble.

"Fuck you," Methos said, "You find this funny."

MacLeod grinned. "I've known about Kenshin for years. Wish I knew him better, really. He's a good guy. Honestly, though, I'm surprised you didn't turn up at least some dirt."

"Nothing interesting. Quite a bit of heroism of varying sorts and descriptions. He's had an arrest here or there for carrying a sword, and he broke the nose of some local bigwig in the 50's and did two weeks in jail. And he was fined for punching his wife's brother-in-law about twelve years ago at his own wedding, apparently with provocation. It's all minor stuff. Boring stuff." Methos shook his head.

"Well," MacLeod said, "I don't think he's got an active watcher right now ..."

"... no, apparently he's considered too boring ... and too likely to notice surveillance. He's got a reputation for being very good at detecting the intentions of others." Methos had obviously been doing his homework. MacLeod was impressed by how much the Watchers had figured out about Kenshin given they'd only discovered him thirteen years ago. On the other hand, Kenshin lived semi-openly as an Immortal among a couple fairly large extended families. Likely, the Watchers had gotten someone to talk about him.

"... heh. Yes. It's part of what makes him such a phenomenal swordsmen. But anyway, you might pass on to the right people that he's finally taken his first head. Glad it wasn't me, too, Challenging Marshall, because you'd probably be dunking me in a hot spring again if I had."

Both of Methos's eyebrows rose.

"Marshall had taken a very Dark Quickening."

"Fuck. Is ..."

"Kenshin? He's too damned stubborn to go over to the dark side, though he's not doing really well."

A buzz washed over them, and both men looked up and through the office's glass doors as an Immortal entered the dojo. MacLeod was not surprised to see Kenshin ... he was surprised to see the woman with him.

She was tall, for a Japanese woman -- about five six or five seven, and all of that height lean, wiry muscle. At sixty, Atsuko looked many years younger until one noticed details like her skin tone and age spots on the back of her hands. Her hair was cut short, in a pageboy -- with silvery roots starting to show, so she dyed it.

Atsuko, he realized.

The two of them -- Kenshin tiny, the woman with him appearing old enough to be his grandmother -- were enough to get the interest of MacLeod's students. By the commentary that Mac could hear through the closed door, Danny was assuming Atsuko was bring her grandson for fighting lessons.

Methos had gone very still, very silent. He met Kenshin's gazes through the glass and then rose, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. "Dark quickening, hm?"

"He's fine, Methos."

"Fine my ass. He's practically radioactive, he's wound so tight. Look at how he's moving, Mac."

At that moment, out on the floor of the dojo, Danny said something particularly rude to Atsuko -- Mac didn't quite catch it, but Kenshin's eyes narrowed in response. MacLeod's grin reached his eyes as the older whipped around, then kicked her shoes off and walked out into the middle of the mattress and, with a firm curl of her finger, she challenged the street kid to a bout.

"Oh-ho." Methos watched with real interest as Danny half-heartedly swung a blow at the 'grandmother' ... who promptly caught his wrist, tripped him, and threw him to the ground. Methos had certainly picked up on the same things MacLeod had, which was that Atsuko Himura moved with the taut grace of a practiced fighter.

Mac glanced at Kenshin, judging his response. Kenshin was standing politely off to the side. His expression was distant, however; he appeared to be paying only absent attention to his wife's bout with the punk kid.

Atsuko offered Danny a hand up ... and then tripped him again. She was grinning, clearly finding humor in her ability to wipe the ground with the teenager. Mac, having seen her throw a few moves, now suspected she would be a challenge for almost any of the men he taught. He might ask her to go a few rounds with _him_, later -- it would be instructive for his students to watch.

Danny, looking really pissed, scrambled back to his feet and swung a solid punch at her. It was meant to connect, and to hurt, and MacLeod sprang to his feet in angered alarm even as Atsuko was blocking the punch with an efficient blow from her wrist. Atsuko laid him _out _-- MacLeod didn't see exactly what she did as he yanked open his office door, but Danny smacked into the ground with an audible _thud_.

And Kenshin was no longer standing up against the wall.

Kenshin moved, almost too fast to follow. Steel glinted under the room's lights. The tip of Kenshin's sword pressed against Danny's throat. In a cold, deadly voice, Kenshin said, "Do you make a habit of punching old women, little boy?"

"Kenshin!" Atsuko's voice cracked like a whip through the shocked silence. Every single man in the dojo was staring at the scene. Every single man was frozen in place, including several who -- like Mac -- had intended to go to Atsuko's aid.

"Kenshin," MacLeod said, as calmly as he could muster -- he could see the live wire tension in Kenshin's small frame. "No edged weapons in the dojo. House rules. Put it away."

"_Now_, Kenshin," Atsuko said, in the commanding tone of voice that only an old woman with decades of life experience could manage. MacLeod heard that tone of voice, noted it as an _alpha bitch_ tone, and elected to let Atsuko handle this. Four hundred years of life had taught him a solid respect for alpha women.

Kenshin blinked. "He tried to hit you! And he called you ..."

"Since when do you fight my fights for me?" Atsuko snapped at him, cutting off his uncharacteristically defensive words. She reached out, and to MacLeod's real shock, yanked the sword out of Kenshin's hand. To Danny, she said, "My apologies, kiddo. My friend's a bit on edge at the moment, and a lot protective of me."

Danny rubbed his throat and backed away. "Your friend is fucking nuts!"

"I am sorry," Kenshin said, suddenly, eyes blinking rapidly. He took two steps towards the door.

"Kenshin Himura, if you run, I swear on everything holy you will be sleeping on the floor tonight," Atsuko snarled at him, in Japanese. "And for the next _year_."

"Et-to ..." He stopped short, looking very confused.

MacLeod wondered just how often Atsuko ripped into her husband. Likely not often; Kenshin had always struck him as most courteous when it came to relationships with others. He wanted to snicker, but the situation was far too serious. He couldn't have his Immortal friends baring live steel in the dojo against the customers -- somebody would be very likely to call the police. Atsuko clearly understood that. So did Kenshin; he looked embarrassed, now.

"Give me your sheath." Atsuko held her hand out to him. "I'll hold onto this for now."

Kenshin wordlessly handed her the sword's scabbard. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. He shook his head, and said, to Danny, who had yet to say a word, "I am sorry. I ... reacted wrongly. It will not happen again."

"Kenshin, go upstairs." MacLeod said. "We'll talk, in a minute?"

Kenshin nodded shortly, turned, and walked into the elevator. Methos said, sounding a bit alarmed, "You gave him a _key_?"

MacLeod ignored that comment. He introduced Methos to Atsuko quickly, giving his cover name, "Adam, Atsuko Himura. Himura-san, this is Adam Pierson, a friend of mine." MacLeod glanced upwards, "Atsuko, ah ..."

She said tightly, "If I go after him right now, I'll probably end up slapping him." She turned to Danny, raised an eyebrow, and said, "Let that be a lesson to you, kiddo, about not jumping to assumptions. You saw _old woman and a teenager_ when we walked in, did you not? Kenshin and I have both spent far too much time in war zones; sometimes reacting before thinking is the only thing that has kept us alive."

Danny swallowed hard.

MacLeod added, "Go home, Danny. I saw you try to punch her. We'll talk _later_."

Danny grabbed his jacket off a bench by the door and pretty much bolted. MacLeod hoped he would come back; he was a stray Richie had taken under his wing a few months before. They both did that: try to give street kids help.

Behind MacLeod, the elevator rumbled to life. He spun around expecting to see either Kenshin returning or Atsuko going after him, but he saw, through the gate, Methos's feet disappearing up and out of sight. And Atsuko was now holding two swords.

MacLeod's eyebrows rose.

Atsuko shrugged around her armful of swords. "Should we go after them?"

"Adam couldn't touch Kenshin with or without a sword -- I've taken him down a few times myself -- and Kenshin won't kill him. Let's see what happens." MacLeod glanced upwards. "Sorry about Danny, by the way."

"I've spent the last two thirds of my life in war zones," Atsuko said, mildly. Her smoke-roughened accented voice was warm now, almost affectionate. "Punk kids, I can deal with. He honestly reminds me of half the soldiers I work with. -- The other half _taught _me to fight."

"Not Kenshin?" MacLeod asked, leading her back to his office. His other customers were slowly returning back to their normal activities.

She shook her head, making her short hair bounce and swish around her ears. "He got me started and taught me a few really effective dirty tricks -- I think they're ones people have used on him -- but he's actually not the greatest martial artist in the world. And he doesn't like to teach fighting. It reminds him of what he was, I suspect. And he'd much rather live in the present as much as possible."


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Notes If it's not clear from context, "Adam Pierson" is Methos's cover identity. Methos is a 5000 year old Immortal of somewhat dubious morals. Also, I personally like the character -- he's probably one of my favorite canon Highlander characters after Mac himself.

(And I've seen the Pippi dojinshi -- clean!!! -- at a con. Pippi chibis. Awwww.)

---------------

MacLeod's loft had frosted windows, but it was a nice day and the Highlander had propped several of them open. The view was strictly industrial, but Kenshin wasn't standing there staring out for pleasure. His mind was racing.

He had reacted not as Kenshin, but as the hitokiri he had once been -- or more precisely, the free swordsman after the hitokiri. For a two year period, when he was sixteen and seventeen years old, he had fought to protect and lead his comrades in arms on a battlefield of blood and death. It had been a treacherous, dangerous time and only his hair-trigger reflexes had kept him, and his men, alive.

Those times were long past.

When the brat downstairs had thrown a punch at Atsuko he had reacted from pure, visceral instinct. Those reflexes had always been there, but nearly completely suppressed by his training and iron will and constant hyper-alertness. He never reacted from surprise because he was never caught off guard.

Except he had been. He had only been paying half attention to Atsuko's impromptu, mischievous bout. When the kid had tried to hurt her he had simply _reacted_ without conscious thought, instincts overriding conscious thought.

"Himura-san," the Immortal standing behind him said, "it hurts, doesn't it?"

"What do you want, Mr. Pierson?"

No answer.

"If you're going to try to challenge me, I suggest against it. I am not in a good mood." He was frightened of what he might do in a fight. He felt all out of sorts; his carefully constructed walls had crumbled. His control was gone. His rules broken. Himself, gone. He didn't know who he was anymore -- the impression of being inside the mind of another man entirely was so strong that he was scared to look in a mirror and find someone else staring back. It seemed to be getting worse, not better.

"I left my sword with Atsuko. This isn't about a challenge."

"I'm sorry about your sons."

"So am I. I understand you've adopted a few dozen children over the years, so I rather expect you understand that pain." Adam stepped closer. "They were good boys. Their mother was a wonderful woman."

"They were brave," he said, unwillingly. Then he glanced back, finally. "I was fourteen, Adam. In another time, another place, I might have been a playmate to your boys. They came at me with swords drawn."

"I never knew that."

Kenshin heaved a harsh sigh. "I was _fourteen years old_."

"I hated your guts. I cared nothing for the fact that you were a child. I wanted you dead for what you did."

"You didn't ... you killed my commanding officer to try to find me. No! You didn't kill him. You left him for _me _to kill." Kenshin still remembered the raw, gut-wrenching agony of being fourteen years old and finding his captain tortured past the point of any hope of survival. He remembered feeling terribly young and terribly scared. The man had not been able to end his own pain; he had begged for Kenshin to do it. Then when Kenshin had lifted his sword the man had turned his face away and _flinched _as it descended.

Kenshin still remembered that flinch. His captain had not wanted to die. But there had been no choice between life and death, only swift and sure or slow and lingering.

His captain had been only twenty.

They had been such children.

"Pain is an efficient way to make people talk," the old Immortal said, quietly.

"You _tortured _him."

The hawk-nosed man lifted one shoulder. "I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm really not. He was on the other side of a war and I needed information from him to escape with my own skin intact, in addition to a personal desire to rend you limb from limb -- and additionally, a personal desire to make sure the Hitokiri Battousai never became the Immortal I knew he would be. Because you scared me badly, Kenshin -- I never knew that you would be one of the best of us. I feared you would be one of the worst, and I figured preemptively lopping your head off would be a smart thing to do."

Adam paused, and scratched the back of his head, and said, "Never expected you'd kill me _twice_."

"You pulled the tendons out of his hands with pliers." Kenshin wasn't willing to let it go. His hand itched for his sword.

"Yes, and I can assure you, I've done worse in my life." Adam stepped closer. "You want me dead, don't you? You want to see my head fly off and my body twitching at your feet. You want to see my heart's blood pour out. You want to taste my Quickening."

"The thought had crossed my mind, yes," Kenshin snarled. His eyes flickered to amber and narrowed; what was this man thinking?

"Then meet me tonight, on the docks. Have at me."

Kenshin raised his hands up and shoved at Adam's chest. "Get away from me. You sicken me."

"What, you don't want to kill me?"

"I don't want to kill _anyone_." Kenshin shoved him again, but he weighed seventy or eighty pounds less than the much taller man. It was ineffectual and, he realized, probably looked a bit silly. Adam had him trapped up against the window and short of real violence, he wasn't getting away. Furiously, he snarled, "I'm not a killer. It ... is not who I am!"

"Just so." Adam stepped back. "That hasn't changed."

Kenshin, breathing hard, glared rudely up at him. Adam smirked. Kenshin thought, _manipulative son of a bitch provoked that out of me on purpose._

"I don't expect we'll ever be friends, Himura, but I don't expect to ever lose my head to your blade, either. You're _not _like that." Methos turned and walked away. As he stood waiting for the elevator, he added, over his shoulder. "Guilt is overrated. I've learned it's much simpler to live in the present and forget the past. I don't even remember the name I was born with, anymore."

Kenshin was still contemplating that last statement -- how old was Methos? -- when the elevator returned, bearing MacLeod and his wife -- and Soujiro, Akane, Carrie, and Richie. The loft, which had been quiet, was suddenly filled with life and energy.

"So yes, she said yes," Richie said, chuckling. He gestured in the air with his hands. "Can you believe I have a date for tomorrow night?"

"And he's crowing it to the world," Carrie said, a grin on her face.

Kenshin spared the girl a glance; she was one of those he was sworn to protect, as he was oathsworn to protect her mother. He hadn't had a chance to scrutinize her yesterday.

Tall, by his standards -- at thirteen she was almost as tall as Atsuko and Richie, and a couple inches taller than either of her parents. She might grow a few inches more over the next few years, too. Whipcord lean; that build was youth, there, and martial arts and sword training. She reminded him of a half-grown colt, all angles and planes and hands and feet.

Curly dark hair framed shockingly blue eyes. Her expression and her ki spoke of a soul that was mercurial, switching between merriment and a quick temper with minimal provocation. She would be quick to forgive, loyal to a fault, ferociously protective of those weaker than her. And there was a sense of joy her ki that made his own soul lighter.

She would be fun to befriend, he thought.

He could feel the faintest hint of Immortality around her when she walked closer.

"Kenshin," she said, meeting his eyes. He was startled by how blue her eyes were. Her skin and hair were olive; he wondered what genetic heritage had led to that pale gaze ... and then remembered that as an Immortal, she had no human birth parents. Perhaps those eyes were simply the whim of the Gods.

She would mature to be a stunningly beautiful woman, he thought.

She grinned, "I did not get a chance to properly thank you, yesterday."

"_Mr. Himura_," Akane hissed, swatting her daughter on the back of the head. In Japanese, she apologized, "Kenshin-san, I am sorry. She's very American, this one is."

He found himself stressing his Japanese-ness, bobbing a bow in her direction. "You are most welcome, Miss Seta."

She made a face at him. "You're mocking me."

"No, your mother," Kenshin straightened up.

Akane stuck her tongue out at him.

He should have slipped into the familiar pattern of banter and teasing; he had known Akane rather well as a child and teenager and it should have been easy to fall back on old habits. But somehow, his comment had felt awkward, and Akane's expression grated wrongly with him. Again he was struck by the feeling of not being himself, of being a stranger inside his own skin.

A buzz, from below, another Immortal.

"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," Richie said, as the elevator rumbled to life.

Kenshin extended his senses, feeling not just their Immortal buzz but also the sense of warriors -- warrior women. He identified them and said, "Chiyoko and Amanda. And someone with them -- your friend Joe, maybe."

"Together?" MacLeod said, with some alarm. "And how _do _you do that?"

"He's psychic," Atsuko said. She was watching him closely. Too closely. He was embarrassed by his earlier actions, and by the fact that she felt the _need _to watch him like he was a badly behaved dog that might forget his training and bite someone.

MacLeod grunted.

He'd been right about the identities of the arriving Immortals, and Joe. And the women were lugging beer and wine -- Joe, with his crutches, couldn't carry any -- and Methos was trailing after them with his arms around a case of Guinness too.

Somehow, someone had decided to have a party. Apparently not MacLeod, because his eyebrows rose in surprise.

Amanda said, "Soujiro and Akane's flight back isn't for two days. Figured we'd celebrate Carrie's safe return."

Kenshin winced. He did _not_ feel like celebrating. He saw Akane flinch as well. However, Soujiro wordlessly reached an arm over Amanda's grip and retrieved a bottle of beer from the box she was carrying. Apparently, Souji was willing to tolerate a party.

"Amanda," MacLeod shook his head, "You could have asked."

"What? You'd have said no. Can't remember the last time I've seen this many of us in one place where we all like each other ..." She gave an insouciant shrug and started putting beer away in his fridge.

"Speak for yourself," Adam said, a comment apparently aimed at no one in particular rather than directly at Kenshin.

"Yeah, nobody likes you," Joe shot back at Adam.

Adam responded by saluting him with a bottle of Guinness and an upraised finger.

MacLeod met Kenshin's eyes. There was apology there.

Richie observed, "Hey Mac, at least they brought their own booze."

------------

Kenshin wasn't drinking.

Atsuko watched him cautiously. He was quiet -- too quiet. Kenshin _liked _parties, as a rule, and he was generally an active participant in them. Put him in a group of men and he was just one of the guys; put him with a group of women and ... well, he ended up the center of their attention regardless of his wishes on that matter.

She'd seen gay men less popular with female friends than Kenshin.

But not today.

And this group didn't know him well enough to realize how out of character it was for him to withdraw and sit by himself.

He was seated in an open window, feet propped up on the sill, a bottle of beer in one hand. He'd been holding the beer for hours and not drinking it, obviously lost in thought. Entreaties by the others to join them for cards or sports-watching on the television had been politely turned down. She was honestly surprised that Kenshin hadn't excused himself from the gathering altogether, and by the nervous looks that the others occasionally shot him, he was making them a little uneasy.

Akane, MacLeod, Richie and Soujiro were playing cards at MacLeod's kitchen table. Joe and Amanda were watching American football. Despite Kenshin's mood, they appeared to be trying to have a good time.

Carrie and Chiyoko had vanished down the elevator half an hour before. Atsuko wondered what her grand niece was up to -- Kenshin had watched them go and had not seemed bothered by it, and neither had Carrie's parents. Still, she was curious.

She rose, let herself down the elevator, and went in search of them.

She found them, giggling together in the lady's restroom, downstairs. _Giggling_. Like the schoolgirl that Carrie was, and that Chiyoko hadn't been in over a century.

Chiyoko's purse was open between them; Chiyoko was applying -- rather expertly -- makeup to Carrie's face. An amazing assortment of various descriptions of makeup was scattered on the counter, and by the makeup smeared paper towels, they'd been trying out cosmetics for awhile. Atsuko had a good idea that Carrie had asked Chiyoko for advice on makeup, and Chiyoko had offered to demonstrate.

Carrie also had a cigarette in one hand and hastily hid it behind her back when she saw Atsuko.

Atsuko raised an eyebrow at her. "I'd tell you that causes cancer, but you know what you are."

"They're mine, not hers," Carrie said, defensively, obviously not wanting Atsuko to think that Chiyoko was -- what, a bad influence?

Atsuko contemplated the issue for second. Carrie had been through enough, she decided. She didn't need to be harassed by her elders over a nicotine habit. She held her hand out. Carrie, with a resentful look, handed her the still-smoking cigarette.

Atsuko took a draw on it and then passed it back, worldessly.

Carrie grinned. It was a hugely relieved grin, but there was also an astonished light in her eyes. Atsuko thought in mild irritation that Carrie would likely be shocked at what _other _substances she'd smoked in her life. She was a child of the sixties and seventies, after all, and had gone to college in London, with all that implied. Cigarettes -- oh, cigarettes were the _least _of what she'd done.

Kenshin had a litter of kittens when she'd told him about some of the _concerts _she'd been to, and the behavior therein.

Atsuko simply shrugged. Carrie might be concerned that she would think Chiyoko was a bad influence because of the cigarettes, but really, she'd have to be careful about what she said to the kid or _she _would be the bad example. "I started smoking when I was nine. Haven't ever been able to stop. Kenshin hates it. It's a dirty habit, I guess, but ..."

Carrie asked curiously, "Is it weird?"

"What?"

"You and him ... I mean ... you're ... " Unspoken, _old. _There was no polite way to say it.

Atsuko grinned. "Kiddo, I've got a husband with the body of a young God and the stamina of the same."

Carrie blushed ferociously. For a moment, Atsuko was also concerned that, given Carrie's recent traumatic experiences, she might have just stepped over the line. But Carrie said, "D-dirty old men have _nothing _on dirty old women, I've noticed."

Atsuko laughed, throwing her head back, "That's the truth, isn't it, Chiyoko-san?"

"Chi-chan, please." Chiyoko snagged the cigarette from Carrie's hand. "And yes, I'd agree with that statement."

Atsuko waved a hand in the air. "Chi-chan it is, if you'll call me Atsuko-chan."

"Mou, that's weird. You're Kenshin's wife," Chiyoko said, uncertainly. Atsuko realized, with a bit of mental whiplash, that Chiyoko viewed Kenshin as her sensei -- even though Chiyoko was twice Atsuko's age. It sort of drove home that Kenshin was, by mortal standards, ancient.

"I'm _younger _than you," Atsuko pointed out, which earned her an absolutely brilliant smile from Chiyoko. What had she said? Oh, yeah, she'd acknowledged that Chiyoko was an adult, likely. "Granted, if we ever meet up in Japan where people are likely to understand what you're saying, you'd better call me Baba or something."

Chiyoko smiled, amusement touching her eyes with a merry glint. Carrie giggled.

----------------

There was an unmistakable undercurrent of hostility in the room, and it blackly amused Kenshin to watch it.

Mostly it was between MacLeod and Soujiro -- or more precisely, it was one-sided mistrust of Soujiro, from MacLeod. Soujiro didn't seem to care about MacLeod's opinion. He was, however, winning hand after hand at poker. This was pissing MacLeod off -- and Joe, as well, who was watching Soujiro very closely, as if thinking he was cheating.

Kenshin had contemplated the idea of Soujiro and poker and had abstained from the game.

_Dice_, now, with Soujiro, might be interesting. Or darts. Or _golf_. Golf with Soujiro Seta promised to be all sorts of entertaining; he might just find an excuse someday to Challenge him to eighteen holes.

He turned his attention back to the room.

Amanda wasn't exactly fond of Chiyoko, either. Kenshin was tempted to pull her aside and tell her she had nothing to worry about; it was clear to him that MacLeod's only interest in Chiyoko was platonic. He had determined that Chiyoko and MacLeod had ended up friends within a few weeks of her arrival in America, when she really was still a child.

Amanda, however, was the sort of woman to be ferociously jealous for no good reason. And unless he missed his guess she was the sort of woman who was also fickle, prone to leaving for another man on a whim. Ironic, that.

He wondered what MacLeod saw in her. And he thought MacLeod could do better -- if a long term relationship was what Mac wanted. He wasn't sure about that.

Amanda laughed at something Richie said, head thrown back to expose a slender white neck. Dark hair, long limbs, bright eyes. She was _alive _... vivacious and mischievous, and sex on two legs.

He stopped wondering what MacLeod saw in her.

Adam, now ... there was low-grade generalized hostility towards Adam from most of the room. Richie's was keenest, and Kenshin wondered what had happened there. Kenshin's own dislike was acute; the man had a ki that was all things that Kenshin couldn't ever respect. Adam was dishonest, arrogant, cowardly, and manipulative. He was a man who used others to his own ends and would do anything, including severely dishonorable things, to survive. He was also a man who could be bullied or led by others to do things which he would ordinarily have not done.

He was a weak man.

Kenshin though absently that Adam was someone whose head he could be provoked into taking, if Adam pushed him too far. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice, that he had with Marshall. It would be unwise of Adam to Challenge him again.

Yet MacLeod seemed to like him. Though Kenshin suspected that Mac's choice of friends was occasionally suspect, witness exhibit A: Amanda.

Joe Dawson, however, was quite fond of Adam. That much was clear by their friendly banter. And Adam returned the friendship; Kenshin suspected that Joe might be one of the few people who could inspire Adam to better behavior.

However, nobody seemed to be about to actually come to blows, or even harsh words, so he finally dropped off the windowsill and onto to the fire escape outside it. It was a nice night -- cool, ocean-scented breeze and high clouds scudding before a rising full moon. Through a gap in neighboring buildings he could see the lights of boats far out on the ocean.

He tried to still his mind. Meditation normally bored him to tears, but his mind was so full of other people's memories and thoughts and feelings that he wasn't sure what was his own anymore. He wanted _quiet _in his head, and time to think undisturbed by intrusive thoughts and images that didn't seem to be entirely his own.

Was this what it felt like to be crazy?

Was he crazy?

He honestly wasn't sure.

The thought of losing his mind terrified him.

Unbidden, an image came from Marshall's memories ... it was of a man, an Immortal, an Immortal who had killed him and whose head Chiyoko had taken. A man saying, "Sure, I'll kill him. You want the girl after I do, right?"

And a memory of thinking that with that _annoying _red-haired samurai out of the way, Chiyoko would need a new teacher. Of saying, "Do not touch the young Immortal. You can do what you will with the older mortal woman as long as she's dead when you're done."

Only it wasn't his thoughts or his memories.

Bile rose in his throat. So Marshall had sent the Immortal after him that Chiyoko had killed. He wasn't exactly surprised, except to realize just how truly evil Marshall had been, even then. Kenshin had known his soul was tainted but even so ...

"Maa," Kenshin said, shaking his head at the disorienting feeling of remembering memories that involved his own life, but weren't his. How wrong it was to have a memory of contracting a hit against himself. And of telling the hitman to have his way with _Kaoru_. There were emotions and thoughts tied to those images and it was hard to tell them from his own.

And they were very, very wrong emotions and thoughts.

He was just so ... overwhelmed. The thing with the boy, downstairs, earlier ... he'd reacted as the hitokiri he had once been, because for a moment, he had been unable to remember who he was _now_. It frightened him to lose his control like that.

"Mr. Himura?" A voice said, quietly, behind him.

He half turned, saw Carrie, and forced a smile to his lips. "Hello, Carrie-dono."

_Dono_.

He didn't much use the honorific anymore, even when speaking Japanese. It drew too much attention to himself, and generally made people think he wasn't a native speaker of the language even when he spoke without any trace of an accent. But he had, now, without a thought on the matter, called her Carrie-dono.

She grinned. She had slightly crooked teeth; not bad enough to need braces, but the slightly uneven line of incisors gave her smile character. "Hello, Himura-sama."

"Umm." She'd just one-upped him on the scale of honorofics. He wasn't sure what to make of that. "Can I help you with something?"

"Not really." She pulled the window shut. "I just wanted to thank you. For saving my life. Without my parents listening. That man ... he was really evil, wasn't he?"

"Aa, Carrie-dono. That he was."

"Oh great and honorable Himura-sama ..."

"Ken-nii," he said.

"Huh?"

"Ken-nii. It's what most of the children call me." And half the adults. Though Atsuko had recently started a fad of them calling him Pan-nii, as in Peter Pan, the boy who would not grow up. _Uncle Pan._ He wasn't sure if he was amused by that or appalled.

Atsuko had stopped calling him Pan-nii herself, after the first time he'd sweetly called her Tinkerbell.

Gods, he loved her so much -- thinking of her made him look through the window at her. She met his gaze, smiled, then fanned her cards out on the table. Richie's, "D'oh!" of protest at her win was clearly audible. She had a pile of poker chips almost equivalent to Soujiro's.

Atsuko kept everything in perspective for him. She reminded him he was human, and kept him grounded in the real world.

"Kenny," she tried out.

His eyes narrowed.

"Ken-nii-sama?"

"Now you mock me."

"A little." She slid down to sit with her legs dangling through the railing, and arms hugging three bars. "Sorry. Are you really a hundred and fifty years old?"

"Yeah. A little more, now, actually." He slid down to sit on the fire escape with his back to the wall. The grate under his butt wasn't exactly the most comfortable thing to sit on, but it put him on eye level with her.

"You must've seen some amazing things."

"That I have." And some terrible things: wars, famines, vicious hard times. "I try to live in the present, though. The past ... can come back to haunt you if you do not let it go."

He realized suddenly that was something he shared in common with Methos.

"I think I understand that. I'm trying not to think about what Marshall had planned for me," she shivered. "But I knew someone would save me. I _knew _it. And then you did."

He sighed and stared up at the stars. What if he had not been there at that precise moment? "Don't always count on someone else saving you, Carrie-d... Carrie. Next time, you might have to save yourself."

She glanced over her shoulder at him, then twisted around to face him. Very seriously, she said, "I know, but I tried to get away from him a few times and he was faster. And that ... toady ... of his. Kerral. He said he'd kill me. Marshall just wanted me to die young and be his girlfriend forever. And, _eww_." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and stared out at the night as well, then said, "I had to have faith someone would come. Or I might have ..."

_... might have taken what he was offering_, Kenshin filled in the blank, as she trailed off. She had convinced herself she would be rescued so that she had another choice besides submitting to her captor. His stomach lurched painfully, wondering just how bad, and desperate, and frightening things had been for this child.

Her _ki _... was bright. He had liked her instantly, from the moment he'd actually taken a moment to notice her. There was an edge to it; he suspected she was the sort of girl that the authorities called a _juvenile delinquent_. But they would be wrong if they did. There was nothing of evil in her, just strong opinions and a tendency towards rebellion and defiance. And a very well developed sense of justice. She would have been more angry than scared, he decided.

"I'm sorry we didn't find you sooner."

"Hell. I'm just glad you did." She turned around to face him, then said, in a complete change of subject, "You know my mom has a picture of you on her desk?"

"Aa?" He wasn't surprised.

"Yeah. It's adorable. You have your hair in braids out to here ..." she held her hands out on either side of her head. "Like Pippi Longstockings."

He spluttered. "Akane used coathanger wires to get that effect." And _Atsuko _had taken the picture, and he had wanted to strangle her for it. And then she had given practically every member of not only the Sagara family but the Trevors as well a copy of it for Christmas.

He wasn't about to admit he had his _own _copy of that photograph in his wallet.

"I have all the Pippi Longstockings books. Margaret -- that's my best friend in High School -- says that I'm too old for them. I say she's full of shit. I like the books."

"I like them too," he confessed.

"You've read them?" She seemed shocked that a _man _would read them.

He could have been defensive. He could have reminded her of the dozens of children over the years that he had personally raised himself or been a beloved adopted uncle to. He could have passed it off as a knowledge gained from bed-time stories and rainy days spent reading to youngsters. After Kaoru had passed away, _all _he had to live for at times were the children.

Instead, he simply said, "Yes."

"Wizard of Oz?" She said, apparently testing his knowledge of children's books.

"Loved it. And I saw the movie in the theaters when it was first released." It had been one of the first color movies he had ever seen.

"Walter Farley books?"

"Own them all, that I do. I've always loved horses, though I rarely get a chance to ride in these modern times."

"Beverly Cleary?"

"Like manga for Western kids, without pictures. I prefer manga."

She laughed. "Me too."

He grinned, and then realized that, somehow, she had sucked him forward to the now. He felt like himself again.

"Now you have me picturing Pippi Longstockings manga and it's ... scary." She shuddered.

"There's dojinshi," he assured her solemnly.

"You're shitting me."

He mentally winced at the language, but simply said, "I'll send you some and prove it."

"I'll look forward to it." She paused a beat. "Should I look forward to it?"

He said, with a grin, "That entirely depends on your tolerance for chibis."

"Very low."

He snickered, though he wasn't sure why he found that those two growled word so funny.

She folded her arms and said in irritation, "Himura Kenshin, you are laughing at me."

"Heaven forbid I laugh at you." He held his hands up protectively. "You might hit me upside the head, that you might,"

"... or something," she agreed. She was silent, then wrapping her arms around her knees, staring thoughtfully at him. "Mr. Himura, I feel like I've met you before. It's the oddest sense of deja vu, talking to you."

He tilted his head sideways. He hadn't considered the thought that they might have met before, in a past life. However, she was certainly easy to talk to, and something about her was oddly familiar.

She blinked blue eyes framed by glossy dark curls.

Kenshin stared, openly, forgetting all manners. He'd completely missed it until _she _had said something. But Tomoe had once told him he would always know when he met someone from a past life, if he was observant enough. And now that he was looking he knew, without any shadow of a doubt, that _yes_, he knew this girl's soul.

_Can I kill Marshall again for you? _He thought, irreverently. That he had saved _her _made everything worthwhile. He would do it again. He would do it a thousand times, and accept all the pain and the evil down upon his own head for her.

"What?"

"Perhaps we met in a past life, Carrie-dono," he said, rising. His knees popped, and his back twinged, reminding him of how uncomfortable the fire escape was to sit on.

"Maybe so." That grin she favored him with was achingly familiar.

He offered her a hand up, and was startled when she rose and stood inches taller than he was. She wasn't supposed to be taller than he was. It made him feel off balance, to look up at her. He'd always looked up to everyone else, but Kaoru had been smaller even than he was.

"Kenshin," she said, "what is it?"

"Nothing you need to worry yourself about, that you don't." He was dizzy and off balance. For one acute, painful moment he was sorry he had proposed to Atsuko, and then he felt horribly guilty and terribly confused because he loved Atsuko with all his heart ...

... and yet it felt like he'd betrayed this soul who stood before him, because if he'd only _waited _a little longer

... He'd waited seventy years, mourning the loss of Kaoru.

And now she stood before him ... not her, but her _soul_ ...

She was thirteen.

With a snap, reality came back to him. She was thirteen, in a culture that treated people as children into their late teens, even early twenties, and where women commonly remained unmarried until their late twenties or early thirties -- or sometimes, never even married at all.

He had not betrayed her at all. He also had a sudden idea _why _she was thirteen.

He tipped his head and asked, "Can I ask you a funny question, Carrie-dono?"

"Yeah?" She said, in a tone of voice that said he could ask, but she might hit him up side the head with a proverbial bokken if she decided not to like the question.

"When were you born?"

"Kenshin no baka, I am an Immortal."

He blinked. "Et-to, forgive this one's foolishness. I forgot."

She added, with a grin that said she was amused by his error -- Immortals were always found, therefore, she would not have an exact date of birth. "My birth certificate has a date on it, though. My parents had to guess."

She gave him that date, casually.

It was the day after he had proposed to Atsuko.

Kaoru had watched over him until that day, and then she had passed the duty on to Atsuko. He remembered now that she had left a shinai in the hotel room. It had been a gift from beyond the grave, and a sign of her approval ... Kaoru fashion.

"Kenshin?" She asked, then corrected herself, "Ken-nii, sorry ... are you okay?"

"Aaa, that I am." He smiled a genuine smile at her. "Come, let us go inside. Perhaps I should be more social with the others."

She lit up like a beacon. It was, he supposed, not entirely another change of subject when she gushed, "Richie's adorable! I love red hair and he's got the cutest eyes and ..."

Kenshin ruthlessly squelched a growl that was more protective than jealous. Oh, no. Tammy was one thing -- but Carrie, and _boyfriends_, was going to be another problem entirely. He might have to move to San Francisco and personally challenge every one of them to duels. And Carrie would promptly hate him, and ... "He's too old for you, Carrie-dono," he said, forcing a low chuckle. He reached down to lift the window up.

She gave him a _look _that was equal parts embarrassed and amused. "I said he was cute. I didn't say I wanted to date him. Like, eww, Ken-nii."

Kenshin held his hands up defensively. "I am reminded that I do not, and never will, understand teenage girls."

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"

He just grinned, amused beyond words by the very familiar indignation in her eyes and voice.

"Hey! You're laughing at me!"

"That I am," he said, and fled through the window as she tried to smack him in the head. She connected, a glancing blow, and he heard a sharp indrawn breath from Atsuko and there were alarmed reactions all around the room. For a moment, he couldn't figure out why they were worried and then remembered how on edge he'd been.

He held his hands up again, fending Carrie's threats off -- she had her fist upraised. "He's laughing at me!" She protested to the room at large.

"Oro! Enough, enough, you win," Kenshin said, then dodged one more blow from her. He was surprised at how normal he felt, how ordinary it seemed, to be hassled by one of the family kids; to goof around and laugh and be teased.

Later that evening, he hugged Akane and Carrie goodbye, and grasped Soujiro's hand in a firm handshake of friendship, and watched from the street outside the dojo as they drove away. They had a flight back to San Francisco the next day and he didn't think he'd see them again, for now.

Atsuko said beside his shoulder, "I'm proud of Akane, Kenshin. Remember how messed up she was?"

"She's got people to live for," Kenshin said, quietly. "Aa, that she does. People to remind her who she is. Soujiro, and Carrie."

"You and Carrie seemed to hit it off."

He glanced up at Atsuko, as they rode the elevator down to the ground floor. She met his gaze, eyebrow lifted questioningly.

Only when they were outside, and in the private confines of his rented car, did he tell her, "She's the reincarnation of Kaoru. I'm certain of it."

Atsuko went very silent, and very still, in the passenger's side of the car. She finally let a _whoof _of breath out, inhaled a shuddering breath, and stared away from him, out at the parking lot. He could see Chiyoko, past her, visible under a streetlight, climbing on her little crotch rocket of a bike -- Chiyoko hooked the kickstand with her toe, flipped it up and out of the way, then gunned the gas and zipped off.

Atsuko said, finally, "I see."

"She's not Kaoru, Atsuko. I know that."

"She's Immortal. And she reminds you of her," Atsuko said, voice queerly soft.

Anger rose -- normally, her words would not even have annoyed him; he would have felt only upset that he had hurt her. The anger he had absorbed during the Quickening was affecting his very soul, he feared.

He wanted to throw harsh words at her. To remind her she was mortal and would die someday -- sooner, rather than later, if she persisted in smoking three packs of cigarettes a day and throwing herself into harm's way. To tell her that once she was gone, he was not going to spend the _next _seventy years mourning her as he had mourned Kaoru if someone came along that suited his fancy. To tell her that he was going to live millenia and he wanted permanence. That he didn't want the heartbreak and horror of another woman dying in his arms.

Atsuko was silent.

So was he. But he seethed. And it scared him. Because simmering anger wasn't anything he had ever experienced before -- oh, he could be pissed off, but it wasn't his nature to stew or carry a grudge.

Yet he found himself mad at Atsuko for her simple words, and the anger settled into his stomach like a ball of lead, making him want to grind his teeth and glare and growl. He drove with short, sharp, angry motions. He couldn't bring himself to look at her; he might say things that were untrue and undeserved.

Finally, though it was almost physically painful, he said, "I apologize, Atsuko."

"For what?"

"For being mad at you, just now. It is wrong and for that I am sorry. You have done nothing to earn my anger, yet I am ... unhappy."

"Kenshin?"

"Aa?"

"I love you," she said, in Japanese -- gravely, and with the deepest of feelings. This wasn't the casual, "Love you, sweetie," she tossed at him on a regular basis, in English. It was much more.

Simple words that drove the air from his lungs and left him feeling more disoriented than ever. He, who was so good at figuring out people's motives that he was often accused of being psychic couldn't figure out what his wife was thinking. Where had that _I love you _come from? It had been utterly heartfelt.

They rode in silence for a few moments. Then she asked, "Are you going to stay in Seacouver for a bit?"

"I was thinking I might. I don't ... I don't trust myself around the family. MacLeod has ... had the same thing happen to him that happened to me. He knows not to trust me." The thought had also occurred to Kenshin that MacLeod was ruthless enough to deal with him, if worst came to worst. He'd come closer than he liked to killing the kid in the dojo, earlier, with very little provocation.

"Funny qualification for a friend," Atsuko said, acerbically. "The not trusting you bit."

Kenshin just sighed.

"I have to go back to Iraq in a week. My leave is pretty short." She rested her head against his shoulder.

"I need you," he said, quietly, a protest of her leaving. It was something he would have admitted to no one else in the world, that he _needed _her.

And that, he realized in a moment of clarity, was the essential difference between Atsuko and Kaoru.

He had loved Kaoru. Worshipped her. Protected her, with fierce devotion. Adored her. Given everything he had to make her life a better one -- he had devoted his life to her, and made her the center of his. He would have cheerfully, with a rurouni smile, laid down his life for Kaoru.

And he had done his level best to never show Kaoru his darker sides.

Atsuko -- the way he related to Atsuko -- was different. Oh, he loved her with as much fierce devotion as he ever had Kaoru, but she was very much more his equal. She was far more like Sano to him than Kaoru, even though he loved her as a woman.

If Kaoru had announced she was going to take a camera into a war zone and bring back pictures in the hopes of _stopping _the bloodshed ... he'd have been frankly horrified. If she had insisted on going, he would have accompanied her, and he would have been profoundly unhappy about the whole idea.

Kaoru could take care of herself ... somewhat ... certainly, she had been tougher than most women in her time.

However, he had still felt compelled to _protect _her.

Atsuko ... was different. Atsuko damn well knew what the dangers were, and probably better than he did. And she chose, again and again, to travel to some of the most dangerous places in the world. Starting with Vietnam and including Iraq, she had spent forty years as a photojournalist in various war zones. She'd followed after famous writers and reporters; had worked for everyone from National Geographic to the BBC.

She had a calling, a profound desire to _change the world _with the lens of her camera.

And he knew she could die. Or be shot. Or raped. Or blown up by a bomb. Or die in a car accident. Or end up in some miserable foreign jail where she would die of disease, malnutrition, or torture or come back a broken shell of herself.

She knew the score as well as he did.

And yet she still went.

And her pictures did make a difference. They were important. . And he had long ago -- before he ever acknowledged how much he loved her -- had accepted this. And so he let her go into war zones on her own, as he had accepted Sanosuke's desire to fight his own fights.

Really, her approach to ending wars and bloodshed was _so _much healthier than his had been.

"I know you need me," Atsuko said, quietly. "But I've a job to do, Kenshin."

And she was right. And her voice spoke of heartbreak when she said it.

He didn't state again that he needed her, even though he wanted to. He didn't want to be alone. He wanted people around him that he knew and loved to remind him of who he really was.

"I'll call you. Whenever I can. More often than I have been."

"Aa."

"Kenshin, I'm sorry we don't get to see each other more often."

"I understand your motivations, Atsuko." He glanced at her. Her jaw was set in a tight, unhappy line. "I, too, have had to leave those behind that I love in the interest of a greater good. I _understand_."

_Shishio. _

Kaoru's heartbroken sobs when he had hugged her and left her still surfaced in his dreams sometimes. He vowed he wouldn't give Atsuko that sort of angst. Besides, he was a guy. Throwing himself at her feet and crying, "Don't leave me and go into danger alone!" ... was just not to be done. Even if that was what he felt. He had his pride, after all.

Her hand rested on his knee, thumb swirling in circles.

"A few more years and I'll retire." She hunched her shoulders as she said this. She'd been saying it for the last ten years. He didn't believe her. She would throw herself into the face of the injustices of the world again, and again, and again, until the day she died.

Sometimes, he teased her about attaching a tripod mount for her camera to her wheelchair when she was ninety ... but not tonight. He simply said, "It is selfish of this one, but I do look forward to that day."


	12. Chapter 12

Kenshin was too quiet. His normally expressive face was still, his expression turned inward. She had learned that her husband truthfully didn't worry, or really even think, about trouble unless he was forced to do so, so for him to have a pensive expression on his face was actually quite unusual.

For a bit, it had seemed as if he was better. Now, though, she worried again.

Atsuko undressed for bed quietly, feeling horribly guilty about telling him how soon she had to leave. His quiet acceptance of her departure had made it all the worse. He was not a person who ever complained or asked more than once for assistance; he had said he needed her, and she had said no to him ... and that was that. He would accept it. It was just the way he was.

She had just meant to surprise him with her visit -- and any other time it would have been a happy week; a bit of bonus time together. The truth was that a couple of people she worked with had gotten hurt, including the on-camera talent; everyone had been sent home for several days because of that, while they put together a new team. And they had been given some leave because everyone, including herself, had been pretty shook up. It had been a car bomb in front of a restaurant in an area that was supposed to be safe.

She wasn't going to tell Kenshin _why _they'd given her two weeks of R&R. He hadn't asked and she was not going to volunteer. He had troubles enough of his own.

He stripped out of his jeans and t-shirt, and pulled an old battered yukata on. He let his hair down, making her ache to run her fingers through that thick red mass. She expected him to crawl into bed, but he didn't -- he stepped outside onto the hotel room balcony and sat down with his back to the wall, staring out at the city. He had his sakabatou in his arms and his jaw set.

"Kenshin?" She stood in the doorway.

He glanced up at her. His delicate features, always more pretty than handsome, were twisted with worry. "I nearly killed Tomoe, once, you know. She startled me when I was asleep and I came at her with a sword."

It was a warning, and one she was not about to heed. She grabbed a comforter off the bed and joined him, sitting down so close their shoulders touched.

"It will be cold out here, by morning," he warned, correctly guessing that either he came to bed or she slept shoulder to shoulder with him.

"Leave the sword out of reach, if you're worried about hurting me," she said, "Put it under the bed. Nobody is going to attack us on the seventh floor."

He glanced over her, amethyst eyes wide. "You're really going to sleep outside if I don't come to bed? Atsuko, you'll be in pain. Your knee ..." The one, he meant, that she took handsfuls of nsaids for, and which the doctor injected with steroids regularly, and which someday, perhaps soon, would need to be replaced. Old age, wear and tear, and likely that time she'd fallen down stairs while running for the basement during an air raid had all contributed to various issues with it.

"You will hurt too," she retorted at him. "I know you don't like to admit it, but your back hurts every morning, and your shoulders and hips."

He frowned at her, clearly not _wanting _company. Otherwise, he would have just accepted her decision to sit with him as her own choice, with her own consequences to bear later.

She gave him a _look _right back and hunched down into the blanket. She hoped he would read her expression as mulish stubbornness. She wasn't about to leave.

He shifted, stood up, crouched before her, and, to her shock, lifted her right off her feet. "Foolish woman," he growled at her, but there was affection in his voice. His arms were strong, and he smelled of his aftershave -- he'd done his twice-weekly shave that morning -- and a very faint hint of the single beer he'd consumed that evening.

"Kenshin! You drop me and you're dead meat!" She could also feel him straining a bit -- he was far more muscular than he looked, and he had the dense bones and muscles of a man who had trained hard and often for more than a century -- but she weighed more than he did, even so.

He carried her into the room and deposited her on the bed, setting her down more or less gently.

"What's to stop me from following you right back out that door?" she challenged.

He left his sword leaning against the wall then lifted the bedcovers up and crawled wordlessly in. His sword he left "I'll sleep in the bed."

Oh, well, that would work. She'd won this round. And there was at least one more round to go here ...

Atsuko slipped under the covers too, and then slid over to his side of the bed. He went tense and seemed to be holding his breath. When she wrapped her arm around him he let out a sharp sigh. "No!"

"Kenshin, it's okay."

"I don't trust myself," he whispered, confiding in her. He never did keep many secrets -- getting Kenshin to express himself was generally pretty easy. One of the things she loved about him was that he didn't try to protect her from the truth. He said, voice low, "I need you, but I don't trust myself."

She ignored that, just holding him close. "You owe me."

"I what?" He sounded genuinely confused.

"For last night." Kenshin's guilt complex was potentially stronger than his ability to punish himself. She reached up and snapped off the bedside lamp.

"Atsuko ..." she could _hear _him blush in the darkness. "I don't know if I'll be any better ..."

"Bet you will." She rose up over him and kissed him. He resisted, mouth firmly closed, hands pushing gently at her shoulders. When he didn't respond to her, she pulled back and said in a low, hurt voice, "You _said _you needed me."

Silent laughter shook his thin frame, unexpected but welcome, as he caved in. "Okay, okay!" He reached up and pulled her back down and kissed her properly, mouth opening, lips firm. It was the sort of kiss that sent tingles to her toes.

She sometimes teased Kenshin that he'd mastered, ah, _two _forms of swordsmanship, and he was the best in the world at both. Anticipation of his second form of swordsmanship made her glow warmly all over.

When they parted to breathe he whispered, "I love you, Atsuko."

"Prove it." Oh, she wanted him to prove her right!

His laughter was audible now. "Since you put it that way to this one ... heavens forbid that I turn down a challenge from you."

And he proceeded to inventively demonstrate just what a brilliant lover he was. He came up with moves she'd never even _heard _of and he left her happy, sated and sleepy after thirty minutes of what was most definitely Kenshin _proving_ it.

She curled against him, pleasantly drowsy, and murmured, "Where did you learn to do that thing with your tongue and why haven't you done it before?"

He went _rigid_ beside her. The change from Kenshin half asleep to Kenshin horrified took one split second. He launched out of bed and vomited into the bathtub, not making it all the way to the toilet.

"Kenshin?" she said, wide awake again. "It was _good_, Kenshin!"

"It wasn't _mine_!"

He grabbed his jeans off the floor and yanked them on, and a t-shirt from his duffel.

"Kenshin, Kenshin slow down ..."

"_Damn _him!" Kenshin punched the wall, putting a hole in it. She jumped at the shocking violence from Kenshin, who so rarely lost his temper. He grabbed his wallet and car keys from the bedside table.

"Kenshin!"

He shoved his feet into a pair of sandals, ignoring her.

"Kenshin, stop! Tell me what's wrong!"

Anguished eyes met hers as he snagged his barrette up. "That thing with my tongue, it wasn't _mine_."

With that explanation grabbed his sword and he lunged out the door, hair still tangled and loose, trailing in a crimson wave down his back. He was gone in a flash, door banging shut after him.

Atsuko, who was _not _dressed, belatedly grabbed for her clothing as well but by the time she had enough clothing on to be decent he was long gone. She followed his likely path downstairs anyway and then stood in the parking lot staring at the empty space where his car had been.

"Damnit." Atsuko threw her hands in the air. She headed back to their room. "I don't care _where _he learned it, but I don't suppose there's any convincing _him _that."

------------


	13. Chapter 13

How long he had been walking, Kenshin wasn't sure. Hours, surely. Aimless walking, mind blank.

__

I have killed. I, who would never kill ... have killed again. The thought ran circles in his head.

His feet had taken him to the waterfront without conscious direction from his brain. He sat down on the top of the sea wall, staring out at the moonlit water without really seeing anything. It was a humid, cool night; it would likely rain by morning.

The thing that he had never realized ... had never expected ... was that Marshall had truly loved Chiyoko. It was all sorts of wrong, of course, and the definition of _dysfunction_ ... but there it was. He'd loved her a century ago and he had loved her again in the present day. Kenshin had never grasped that fact until Marshall's memories, and knowledge, and thoughts and feelings had flooded his head.

The reason he had kidnapped Carrie, Kenshin knew now, was that he was looking for something like what he had with Chiyoko: a girlfriend who looked very young, because he was attracted to youthful innocence, and one who would forever _stay _young. Marshall had screwed up with Chiyoko and was trying to start over.

'Screwing up' had included murdering his mistress for cheating on him, even though _he _had cheated on Chiyoko with her. Kenshin had little sympathy for Marshall's angst at losing Chiyoko's affections.

In Carrie, however, Marshall had not found another Chiyoko. Carrie was nothing at all like his protégé. Chiyoko was not rebellious; if anything, she was too submissive. She was a follower, not a leader, and Kenshin realized now that the reason Chiyoko's brain shut down and she went on autopilot in a fight was that she was temperamentally not suited for making the decisions necessary to win. She had to take command, and be aggressive and that was not her nature. So she relied on instinct and training over thought in a fight.

Against average swordsmen, her training would always prevail. Kenshin knew in his heart that if Chiyoko ever fought someone of her own level of training and skill she would lose. The way she reacted to a fight could be her downfall someday.

Marshall had fully realized that Chiyoko was not a leader and would follow him given the right prodding. He had actually _loved _her for it. It made him feel powerful to have her look up to him. That desire to be a leader, to be worshipped by those he loved, was one of the reasons _why _he had been attracted to young girls and the occasional young boy.

Carrie, on the other hand ... well, she wasn't Kaoru, but she had Kaoru's soul, and Kenshin was willing to bet that Marshall had found her a lot less compliant than Chiyoko. Carrie was rebel and a free spirit, much like she had been in her past life.

As a person, completely independent of who her soul had once been, Kenshin genuinely liked Carrie -- but

Kenshin preferred women, and friends, and family, who stood up for themselves and who spoke their own minds. He found Marshall's memories and desires, now a part of him, to be sickening. But the bottom line was that, in his own twisted way, Marshall have loved Chiyoko. And he had _made _love to her, and from all the memories that Kenshin had assimilated, it had been good.

That made it harder, somehow, to justify the fact that he had killed the man.

__

Could I have reached him? Kenshin wondered, _Could I have shown him the error of his ways? Could I have defeated, somehow, the dark evil in his soul?_

He sighed. Given the same choices he would make the same decisions, but it didn't stop him from wondering.

__

I cannot let the guilt consume me, he thought, tucking his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them. _I have too many responsibilities and too many loved ones who want to see me smile and laugh and whose joy is dependent on my own._

He'd learned that lesson a long time ago, with Kaoru. Sooner or later he would need to go back to Atsuko and apologize for upsetting her. She was his wife and her happiness was paramount to his.

He concluded that he had made the right decision in killing Marshall for the hundredth time in the last two days. It hurt. He had broken his vow and violated everything he had believed in and preached to others for the last century and some decades. But he had done so, he told himself firmly, for the right reasons.

It was perhaps an hour to sunrise when he felt the buzz of another Immortal. He rose, expecting it to be one of his friends, or at least one of his acquaintances. Likely they would be concerned -- likely, Atsuko had been rousing everyone she could think of to look for him. He steeled himself for the inevitable questioning, cheerleading, and sympathy.

The Immortal was a complete stranger. It was a man with dark hair and brown eyes.

Kenshin rested a hand on his sword. "I am Himura Kenshin," he said, warily, to the other.

"Mark." The man grunted. "Foolish of you to sit out here alone, little boy."

__

Well this is just great, Kenshin thought, sourly. The last thing he needed to deal with was some idiot headhunter. "This one has been a fool many times, but I would not recommend a Challenge with me. I am not in the mood for it."

He turned to walk away, hoping the other would recognize his name or at least his attitude and take a hint. The stranger, a rapier in hand, charged at him. Apparently, he was stupid and clueless.

Kenshin, without turning back, caught the overhead sword strike with the backs of his crossed wrists in a move that he had learned from Kaoru, not Hiko. He stepped inside the range of the sword, drove his elbow into the man's gut and scraped the sole of his hiking boot down the man's shin, then shoved him back with a twist of his hip and drew his sakabatou. With considerable irritation he resigned himself to a round of trounce-the-idiot. He _really _wasn't in the mood for it; the idiot was disrupting his brooding.

"You are not much of a student of famous swordsmen, are you?" Kenshin said, with considerable disgust. "Or of Japanese history. Most people, hearing my name, are a little more cautious in attacking me."

"You think a lot of yourself." The man, without further preamble, launched into an attack. His ki practically _screamed _of senseless aggression, and Kenshin suspected he'd taken the heads of quite a few young, vulnerable immortals.

Kenshin swore under his breath, blocking the attack. The guy was good -- not on par with his level of skill, but good enough to keep him on his toes. He fell into an easy pattern of parrying technically skilled but unorginal blows from the idiot headhunter. It was painfully obvious to Kenshin that this man had no swordman's senses -- no ability to read the emotions and intentions of his opponent. He had very good technique, but nothing beyond that.

"You're skilled," the headhunter said.

"I am," Kenshin said, without conceit. He spotted an opening, fouled the man's sword, and disarmed him. He kicked the sword off the sea wall; it clattered onto the rocks below.

The man stared at him in slack-jawed shock.

Kenshin regarded him thoughtfully, opening his senses to take a good look at the man on multiple levels. He was stupidly aggressive, and fairly young, Kenshin thought. He'd met the man's ilk before -- the man would feel no guilt for taking the heads of other Immortals. It would kill again, if Kenshin let him go. There would be no reasoning with him, and no appealing to his conscience because he didn't have one.

A few days ago he would have walked away on _principle_.

__

Carrie, he thought. Carrie could fall victim to this man's malice someday. Or Chiyoko. Or Richie. Or MacLeod. Or Soujiro. Or any of the other small handful of Immortals he cared about.

In a sudden moment of clarity he realized _why _MacLeod had been so angry at him over his refusal to kill, thirteen years ago. He had earned that anger.

__

Mac has lost friends to people I could have stopped, Kenshin thought. He wasn't sure if that was MacLeod's exact logic, but it was most likely true. MacLeod had definitey been angry because he could _stop _people who were bad, and he didn't, however.

The man turned to run.

Kenshin was faster.

After, he sat again on the sea wall, smelling ozone and blood in his nostrils. Tears trickled down his face, warmer tracks of moisture on his cheeks as rain began to fall.

He wasn't even sure why he was crying.

----------------


	14. Chapter 14

The little Japanese guy, Kenshin, was standing by the 'Please Wait to be Seated' sign when Tammy looked up from cleaning out yesterday's pastries in the display case. He was soaked from the rain, hair matted to his skull, t-shirt practically dripping. That soaked shirt outlined a thin but very athletic upper body; he obviously worked out.

Trying not to be obvious about appreciating the view, she said sympathetically, "It's pouring out there!"

He wiped long bangs back from his eyes and said quietly, "Yes, it is."

By his expression, the weather matched his mood. He moved slowly when she escorted him to booth, and sat down heavily, without any the natural grace that she remembered from his last time here. He said, "Coffee. _Just _coffee. Please."

No smile touched his lips when he spoke. He sat hunched in his seat, arms folded, staring into space. She brought him a mocha and said, "It's on the house. You look like you could use the sugar."

He looked at her blankly, clearly not tracking her conversation.

"The mocha."

"Oh." He sipped it. "Um. Thank you."

"Richie Ryan asked me out," she told him, hoping to see him smile. "On a date. To the movies."

His voice, and his expression, were bleak when he said, "Good. You suit each other."

"Mr. Himura, are you okay?" She was pretty sure that something was terribly wrong. She had an instinct for such things, and, moreover, seeing this handsome man look dark and grim felt oddly familiar -- in a terribly wrong way. It was like she'd seen him with a frighteningly unhappy expression on his face before, though she'd only spoken to him twice in her life and she'd been five years old the first time.

He stared into his mocha and didn't answer her question.

"Mr. Himura?"

He glanced up at her, very briefly. "I am sorry, Tammy-dono. I am ... feeling a bit lost today, that is all. Do not mind me."

Tammy-dono? It sounded vaguely like an endearment, only not. There was a certain amount of formality in his speech. She was tempted to ask him the meaning of 'dono' but decided to save it for later. She was truly worried about the man.

She glanced around the coffee shop. At six AM on a miserably cold and rainy Sunday morning, the shop was empty except for one old man nursing his cup of joe and reading yesterday's paper in the corner. She slid into the booth across from him and said, "Want to talk about it?"

He gave her a vaguely alarmed look, eyes going wide. "I can't."

"I see." By his reaction he clearly didn't want to discuss whatever it was that was troubling him. Feeling a bit embarrassed, she started to rise. "I'm sorry if I was being a bit nosy."

He reached out, suddenly, and grabbed her wrist -- a quick, light, staying gesture. He released her immediately, and bowed his head. His damp red bangs covered his eyes and he said in a muffled voice, "It is okay that you asked. I simply cannot discuss this with you, for many reasons."

"I understand." She smiled at him, and was rewarded, when he looked back up, with a faint answering expression.

He blew out a puff of breath and added, "I wish I could. I suspect you'd have wise counsel for me. But ... I cannot talk about it."

"Trouble with your wife?" She asked, making a stab-in-the-dark guess.

"Oro!" His look was surprised. "No! ... yes."

That sounded like a correction, after the fact, after a moment's thought. He shook his head, and explained himself further, "Not the _primary _trouble, no. We had a fight last night ... well, not exactly a _fight ..._"

"You're blushing," she observed.

"Oro! Yes, and you are _far _too young to talk with about this matter."

"Ah, I see," she said, very wisely, which made him blush further, a furious red spreading from his hairline clear down to his collar. She felt a bit of a blush warm her own cheeks, as she hadn't meant to embarrass him more and, anyway, he was _right _that she was too young and too easily flustered to talk about the sort of things she believed he was alluding to. With a bit of a stammer she said, "I b-believe, then, that is a matter you should discuss with your wife."

He swirled a spoon around in his mocha. "I will, later. Atsuko -- that's my wife -- isn't the problem. It's me."

She gave him a curious look. The sense of familiarity was strong again. Something about this man gave her an acute case of deja vu. Softly, she said, "Mr. Himura, ever have the feeling you've known someone in a past life?"

She was joking, of course, but the look he gave her was startled indeed. Wide violet eyes stared at her over the steaming cup of coffee, half veiled behind his hair. That astonished look struck her as familiar too, though she couldn't place when or where she'd seen anyone like him before. She wondered if his eye color was natural or if he was wearing contacts.

Then he cleared his throat and said, "Of course, you are joking."

"A little." She said, hesitantly. She didn't think he would ridicule her, but she was wary of talking about this with a virtual stranger. "I believe in that sort of stuff, I think, but there's what, six? seven? billion people in the world. Even if you were reincarnated the odds of finding any one other person you knew again would be very low. Worse than winning the lottery."

He smiled faintly. She was glad to see the smile; his was a face that was meant for laughter and joy, not misery and wariness and careful caution. "You are assuming that souls would be reincarnated randomly. I believe that they are not."

"So you believe, then? In reincarnation?"

There was definitely a trace of amusement in his voice now. "I do."

"Are you Buddhist?" That being the most prominent religion she could think of that believed in reincarnation and was Asian.

He lifted a shoulder in half a shrug. "No." And he didn't elaborate on his religion further and it seemed impolite to press the point. After an awkward moment, he said, "Tammy-dono, why do you think you knew me in a past life?"

"I ... get feelings about people sometimes. You simply feel familiar." She tilted her head, considering the matter. He was politely quiet while she thought, and that, too, seemed oddly like something she knew of him from a long time ago. "It is as if we knew each other well, once upon a time, but we have been apart so long that we are strangers now."

"Ah." He sipped his coffee.

"You must think me a complete fool."

"Not at all." He smiled at her, encouragingly. "Trust in those sorts of feelings, Tammy-dono. They may be right."

She admitted, "I have similar feelings about Richie -- though in his case, they are even stronger."

Kenshin said, sounding intrigued, "Hm. Really?"

"His smile. And his laugh." She shrugged, feeling a little embarrassed now to be discussing this with a complete stranger. "It's like I've known him before."

"Trust in those feelings ..." Suddenly he went very still, shifting in his seat, and looking towards the door. A moment later the door swung open and a woman entered -- an older woman whose eyes lit up when she saw Kenshin.

"There you are," she said.

"Atsuko," Kenshin said, and then said something low and apologetic in Japanese. She responded.

"Tammy," he said to her, "this is Atsuko, my wife."

Tammy's eyebrows rose despite herself before she forced herself to a neutral expression. Atsuko looked to be twice his age, though it was hard to tell -- she had a feeling that Kenshin was quite a bit older even than their past history would suggest. He had the sort of face that was just impossible to accurately guess the age for. Still, Asuko was definitely much older than he was, and likely by decades.

Atsuko shot her a dark look.

Tammy smiled back apologetically, mentally wincing at that expression. Atsuko, she was reasonably sure, was jealous -- jealous of a younger woman talking with her husband.

"Coffee, please, and a cherry danish," Atsuko said, before turning her attention to Kenshin.

Tammy watched the two of them covertly as she retrieved a danish from the pastry case. They were speaking in Japanese, and so she had no idea of the exact subject of the conversation. For this she was more than a bit grateful, given what Kenshin had earlier implied about the nature of his angst. However, the bond between the pair was very obvious to her even without understanding their words. Atsuko had nothing to worry about when it came to where her husband's heart lay.

Kenshin was apologetic, eyes downcast, posture depressed. Atsuko was concerned, speaking to him in a low voice. She rested her hand on his, thumb swirling little circles on his wrist. Gradually, he began to brighten. And finally, he huffed a sigh and covered her fingers with his free hand in a gesture somehow so intimate that she felt like a peeping tom, witnessing it.

She busied herself making fresh coffee for Atsuko -- the pot was several hours old -- but when she looked back, she witnessed an exchange of smiles between them -- Kenshin's hesitant, Atsuko's encouraging.

Atsuko said something in a teasing tone of voice to him, finally.

Kenshin plopped his head down on his arms, pony tail tumbling over his shoulder. A muffled, _"Orooo!_" emerged from the hollow created by his folded arms.

Atsuko reached out and brushed his hair back from his face when he looked up at her and said something else in Japanese ... something that brought an instant blush to Kenshin's cheeks. Atsuko grinned, a mischievous look that belonged to a much younger woman. _Minx_, Tammy thought, with a bit of jealousy ... she knew in her heart that she would never have the sort of chutzpah to _tease _a lover out of a funk like Atsuko appeared to be doing.

She could nurture and comfort someone with the best of them. But to gently _tease _a man into laughing when he hadn't felt like it to begin with? She wouldn't begin to know where to start. Likely if she tried she'd either embarrass herself when the effort fell flat -- or just piss the guy off.

Kenshin's low tones when he spoke, hesitant but honest, made her look over again while she waited for a fresh pot of coffee to perk. Atsuko had swiped his mug of cafe mocha, and was sipping it while he told her something that sounded like a confession.

Tammy carried over the coffee and the danish. Atsuko was halfway through Kenshin's mocha. Tammy asked hesitantly, "Should I bring over another mocha?"

"I'll drink her coffee," Kenshin said, reaching for it. "I honestly prefer plain coffee. But thank you, Tammy, for your kindness."

She found herself returning the quick, slight smile he sent her way. His eyes were friendly, and his expression open and less guarded than it had been moments before.

Then his features clouded over again, and he exhaled sharply, and set his jaw. Atsuko caught the change in his demeanor too, and said something to him in Japanese that almost sounded like a rebuke.

"We'll talk later," he said, to his wife, in English. "Not here. I need a little time ... to think. Please allow me that."

Atsuko replied, "Okay, later." She turned her gaze towards the windows. "Damn, but it's pouring out there."

"It is," Kenshin agreed.

"Yes," Tammy agreed. "It's miserable weather."

Atsuko rested a hand on Kenshin's wrist and said in a comforting tone of voice, "Good weather to curl up with someone you love."

"Aa." Kenshin said, agreeing. He flicked a quick glance Tammy's way, as if he was self-conscious of his wife's attentions. "That it is."

After they left, Tammy found herself feeling oddly bereft, like she was missing something that she couldn't even define. Kenshin had favored her with a long look as they'd departed, too, and she'd seen something in his eyes that she didn't understand. Why, when he loved Atsuko so obviously, was he looking at her with _regret_?

It made her uneasy; she felt like she was in way over her head when she thought about even befriending Kenshin.

__

Besides, she thought, _he's probably going home soon. I'll never see him again._

-------------


	15. Chapter 15

Atsuko was reading -- it was a formula romance novel in English. Kenshin lay curled up on the mattress beside her, not really wanting to think, or move. He felt stunned -- both by the Quickening itself and what he had done.

__

I killed.

He had his head on a pillow, the back of his skull inches from her hip -- she was leaning against the headboard while sitting up. Outside, the storm still raged. They had caught the noon news on the hotel room's TV; the news made it sound like a deluge of Christian biblical proportions. Kenshin, who had been through at least fifty tropical storms and hurricanes in his life, was only moderately impressed by the weather.

The bad weather would eventually go away. Sun always followed rain. One of the laws of the universe, that it was.

Atsuko set the book down on the pillow by his head, and rubbed his back through his t-shirt, then ran her fingers through his ponytail, separating rain-matted locks of his hair. After a moment she said quietly, "You killed again, didn't you?"

"I don't regret it."

And that was true. And he should feel guilty, but he just felt numb. He had declared, once upon a time, that he could not find a way to fully atone until all those he had wronged had forgiven him. But who could forgive him if he killed a man so stunted and evil that he had no friends?

The man he had killed -- Mark -- had been a loner. No friends, no family. He had been a predator without loved ones -- or, truthfully, love at all. Once upon a time he might have been different but Kenshin _knew_, viscerally, that killing him had been a merciful thing both for those good people whose lives had been spared by his actions, and for Mark himself. The man had no joy, no _life_, in his heart. Without happiness what was the point of living?

"I do." Her hand stilled in his hair. "Kenshin, you're not a killer. You're going to destroy yourself."

"Somebody had to do it. I'm _good _at it."

The hand withdrew. He rolled over, knees bumping against her feet, nose near her elbow when he propped himself up with one hand. "Atsuko, I'm still me. I haven't changed."

"Bullshit." She rose off the bed. "You know why I've always loved the most about you, Kenshin, ever since I was a little girl? It's your idealism. I deal with Gods damned vigilantes and soldiers and blood and tears and guilt and agony and grief and death and dying and people making vicious hard choices. I deal with this almost every day when I'm in the field. I've _heard _people say the things you're saying now. And I'm not saying that they're wrong. Often they're right, and often people _do _need to make those hard choices, and kill for the greater good."

She pointed a finger at him while standing by the window. "_You _make a harder choice still: you have always chosen to never kill even when all logic says that you should. You've always found a way, Kenshin -- somehow, some way, you've always found a way to avoid murder. And in that idealism, and those incredibly powerful beliefs of yours, I find _hope_."

He closed his eyes. The numbness would be replaced by agonizing pain if she kept this lecture up.

"I come home to you and I'm reminded of what humanity _can _be. You are one of the best of us, Kenshin, one of the brightest and most shining examples of mankind I have ever known. And you are _killing_. Marshall was one thing ... but again? Three days later? Over a century of never taking a life and suddenly you kill twice in three days?

She turned away, suddenly. "I'm afraid for you, Kenshin. This isn't _you_."

"You should leave me." _Where _those words came from he didn't know, and he wanted to take them back as soon as he said them because he knew she would be hurt by them.

She went very still for a long moment. Then, quietly, "No."

He didn't know what to say. Instead he sat up, and regarded her warily. He could tell by her expression that her mind was going a thousand miles a minute. Then, suddenly, and very decisively she said, "No. I won't let you do this."

"Do what?"

"Shove me away. Kenshin. Uh-uh. Ain't happening. I'm not that easy to get rid of."

She fell silent again.

"I'm not trying to push you away." He was, and as soon as he said it, he knew she'd call him on it.

"Bullshit," she said, in English. She sat down at the table and drummed her fingers on the top, then abruptly unclipped her cell phone from her belt and dialed a long string of numbers into it.

"Who are you calling?" Her expression was decisive, and it worried him.

"My boss," she mouthed, over the phone. Then, when someone answered, she said, "Hey, boss-man, it's me."

Kenshin heard an excited squeal, tinny and high pitched, from the cell phone's speaker. He'd met her supervisor a few times -- the man wasn't much taller than he was, and had an energy level that reminded Kenshin a great deal of Misao on about three cups of coffee and with a heaping side of sugar.

Misao had died ... he counted in his head ... more than forty years ago now, dying at an impressively old age. He remembered teasing her that the reason that she'd lived to see ten decades was that she was too hyperactive for Death to catch. It seemed like it had been only yesterday that he had put flowers on her grave, and his tears as well.

Misao hadn't slowed down until the very end, either -- and she'd been as sharp as a tack. It hurt, still, to remember that end; the last of his closest friends to go. Those had been some very ugly, lonely years, between Misao's death and ... Atsuko.

"... I'm fine. Tired. No, no nightmares. I've been a bit too busy for nightmares." Atsuko's voice drew him back to the present. He realized he was in a truly _morbid _mood, for his thoughts to settle on the several years between the time that he'd lost Misao to old age and the time he'd plucked Atsuko's eighteen year old butt out of a bad situation of her own making in a war zone. She had truly been an idiot as a teenager -- but who wasn't?

At least Atsuko had gotten smarter and more cautious about the trouble she headed into.

Nightmares? Kenshin turned his full attention on his wife. Why would she have nightmares? Other than the obvious reasons of living most her life in war zones, but she was one of those people who just _didn't _... Kenshin could tell you all about post traumatic stress, from experience, both his own and with friends and colleagues and fellow soldiers, from decades before it had that name.

Atsuko had seemed blessedly immune to the vicious sorts of nightmares that he thought her boss might be referring to.

"... look, boss, there's no easy way to say this ..."

From her phone, her employer's tones were softer. They sounded sympathetic. She glanced at him, then turned her attention back to the phone. "Yeah, that's right. I've had enough, Tommy ... forty years, man."

Kenshin stopped breathing as he realized what she was doing.

"I'll send you a formal letter tomorrow, but I've just had enough. It's time to throw in the towel, particularly after last week ... yeah. I just wanted to let you know now so you can start looking for someone ..."

He shook his head, and mouthed, "You don't have to do this!" And he wondered, _Last week?_

What had happened that she wasn't telling him about?

She gave him a wry smile back. "... I'll be sixty in a few months, Tommy. It's time to retire, you know it is. You've _told _me that a few times."

"Atsuko ..." He wished she'd talked to him about this. He'd have ... what? Tried to talk her out of it? He knew he would have _agreed _with her retiring. He just didn't like the reason -- he suspected she was throwing in the towel not because she was tired of photography, but because she was worried about him.

In response to his murmur of her name, however, she simply flashed him another smile over the top of the phone. Well, he, too had suggested she retire -- had told her, point blank, a few times that there were other people who'd step in and fill her shoes if she walked away from the danger. He had worried that with her bad knee she would be too slow, too clumsy, if she had to run from danger. He had been concerned that her high blood pressure, diagnosed on her last physical, might be more difficult to control in the field. And there were a thousand other worries unrelated to her age.

She talked to her boss for several more minutes -- it sounded, by her reactions, as if he was expressing regret at her leaving and relief all in one.

Kenshin wanted to tell her, _Don't stop on my account! _but he _wanted _her to retire. And so he held his tongue, unsure what to do, but very much worried that she was stopping for entirely the wrong reasons and would someday come to regret this and resent him for this.

Finally, decisively, she snapped the phone shut.

"You didn't have to do that." And it was, he thought, so very like her that she'd done it without consulting him. She was like that -- she lived her own life, on her own terms. He'd understood _that _about her since she was a teenager. She, like he, was ferociously independent and kept her own counsel much of the time.

"I can always unretire in a year or two," she pointed out. "And I can get a job with most anyone. Kenshin, love, with my track record? With the awards I've won?I can get work anywhere."

She sat down on the bed beside him and said quietly, "We've been married twelve years and we've never spent more than a few weeks together at one time."

"I knew it would be like that when I asked you to marry me." Kenshin caught her hand in his. "I _knew_, Atsuko. I knew you had a purpose in life that was much greater than just being my wife. I've always known that. Never regret the choices you've made in your life. You _have _made a difference in the world."

She looked sharply away. "Then is it selfish of me to just want to be with _you_?"

He was silent for a moment then he said, "You've done more good in this world than most people could ever dream of, Atsuko. Nobody would fault you for wanting some happiness of your own. And -- there are other ways you can make a difference in the world."

"Platitudes. You're trying to make me feel better."

"Yes," he agreed, because he was.

"I can think of a few ways you can make me feel better ..."

"_Oro_!" He felt himself smiling hesitantly. He would have preferred to _not _go there, not tonight, not after the ... incident ... last night. But Atsuko had just made an enormous sacrifice for him -- because she was worried about him, and because she loved him.

But it turned out she was just teasing, because she didn't push for anything. Instead, she crawled across the bed to him, and they curled up together and watched the storm-driven rain pound against the balcony windows for a long time until sleep claimed them.

When he woke, hours later, it was to Atsuko in his arms ... and the knowledge that she wasn't leaving him in a few days -- and maybe never again -- and the warmth of knowing that she would not die brutally in some foreign war. He would have her at his side, gods willing, for decades more.

----------------

"Hawai'i."

MacLeod glanced over at the smaller man, who was straddling a weight bench and wiping a clean rag down the length of his sword. Kenshin looked better than he had in days -- brighter, more focused, and less broody. He'd showed up as the dojo was closing, asking to work out after hours. He'd done katas until he was winded and sweating.

"Hawai'i," he repeated, detailing his plans for the near future since MacLeod had asked, "on a vacation. First tickets we can get. From there, I don't know. Maybe back to Tokyo, maybe England. I have family in the London area."

"Hawai'i," MacLeod said, amused, "That's very normal, Ken."

"Normal is good," Kenshin said, with fervent feeling. "Normal vacation, normal life. I am quite fond of normal, that I am."

MacLeod hesitated for a long moment, then said, "Joe says you killed someone last night."

Kenshin glanced up. He didn't deny it -- but then, he wouldn't. Kenshin wasn't much for concealing the truth, even if it was unpleasant. "Yeah, I did."

MacLeod said, "Mark Meres. Nasty bastard. Richie and I have been wanting to take him out for years but he's never been dumb enough to challenge either of us. No loss to the world there, Kenshin. You did the right thing." MacLeod didn't like the look in Kenshin's eyes when he said _yeah_ -- it was bleak, depressed, and somehow frightening. It was as if part of Kenshin was dead, and that unnerved him.

Kenshin said nothing.

"Mark killed a friend of mine about two years ago for no good reason. The man had only been Immortal for about five years and wasn't very good with a sword. He ambushed him and killed him."

"How did you know I killed him?" Kenshin asked, finally, a bit of a suspicious tone in his voice. "I don't have a Watcher."

"You have one," MacLeod said, with some amusement.

"Well, yes, but she doesn't _watch _me." Kenshin shot him a dark glare, as if the whole Council of Watchers was MacLeod's personal fault. Well, tipping them off to Kenshin's Immortality had been, MacLeod recalled. "We have an agreement. She doesn't follow me around and I don't call the police on her for stalking."

MacLeod's lips twitched in amusement. Joe had related stories of Watchers trying to follow Kenshin over lunch earlier that day. Apparently, Kenshin was a now legend among Watchers for being difficult to directly observe. He _had _gotten his Watcher arrested and _deported _once.

MacLeod explained, "There's twenty of us living in the city. When Mark turned up dead, missing his head, Joe networked with the other nineteen watchers. You were the only one of us who couldn't be accounted for."

Kenshin met MacLeod's gaze with eyes that were flat and emotionless. "He attacked me without provocation. He had done so before, to others, and I expected he would do so again."

"Yep. And you did the right thing."

"Once I would have said I didn't." Kenshin regarded MacLeod levelly. With self-awareness that chilled MacLeod, because it was also self-condemnation, Kenshin said, "Soujiro Seta was much the same the first time I met him. And the second, he was not much changed. And yet he found the strength inside himself to alter his outlook. He is a good man, Mac."

"Only after he killed a few hundred people, including my friends," MacLeod snapped back. "You'd have done a number of friends of mine a favor if you'd cut his head off a hundred and twenty years ago."

Kenshin flinched. "He can't ever atone for the heads he's taken, Mac. But he can go forward. We _all _can only go forward and live our lives the best we know how."

MacLeod shook his head. "I can't forgive him for what he did. He did so willfully."

"Nobody's asking you to forgive him." Kenshin said levelly. "Though I do thank you for helping us recover Carrie."

MacLeod protested, stung, "She was a child. And one of us! Of course I would help!"

"And you've never done anything in your life that you regret, that you haven't?" Kenshin's tone of voice was suddenly too sweet, too polite. MacLeod found that tone alarming, because Kenshin had also stood up and Kenshin was holding a sword. And he had _seen _Kenshin fight. He knew he was outclassed. He might win if he got lucky, but not in a fair, even fight.

"I've done many things that I regret," MacLeod said, warily.

Kenshin sheathed his sword. Given that he was a master of Battoujitsu, and he still had a hand on the hilt of the blade, MacLeod didn't exactly find this comforting. When had Kenshin gone from _friendly, harmless idealistic fool _to _scary bastard_ MacLeod wasn't exactly sure, but he suddenly realized he didn't trust Kenshin at all when Kenshin had a sword in his hand.

"I told you about some of them the night before last." MacLeod paused. "I think I did. We were pretty plastered."

Kenshin said dryly, "Yes. You told me. I remember."

Two old soldiers, drunk ... they'd shared some morbid tales. MacLeod had been shocked by some of the things Kenshin had told him about his early years. And he suspected there were darker secrets that Kenshin didn't tell to anyone.

"What are you getting at, Ken?" MacLeod asked.

Kenshin ran a hand over his face, and blew out a sharp breath, then drug his fingers through his bangs -- both hands, finally releasing his sword hilt. "I don't know, Mac."

"For what it's worth, I think you did the right thing in taking out Mark Meres. I'd have done the exact same."

Kenshin shook his head. "Taking a life is never right. But sometimes ... sometimes it might be necessary anyway, for the greater good. I don't know, MacLeod. I'm not sure where I stand anymore, or what I believe. I've got a lot of thinking to do, I guess."

"So you're going to Hawai'i?" MacLeod said, after a long moment.

"I'll send you a shirt." A hint of humor glinted in Kenshin's eyes. Perhaps he was picturing MacLeod in a bright Hawaiian shirt. MacLeod, for his part, found no difficulty at all in imagining Kenshin wearing neon colored floral prints and flip-flops. Kenshin's love for bright colors bordering on the garish was somewhat obvious.

"Skip the shirt," MacLeod said, vaguely appalled at the idea of wearing such garb himself. "Just send me a postcard."

"It's a deal."

MacLeod wondered why Kenshin had seemed so scary a moment before. Now he just seemed normal. Not _ordinary_, because Kenshin would never seem ordinary ... but just a guy with a quick smile and a remarkable talent for swords.

Kenshin glanced at the door, then said, "I need to run -- I promised Atsuko I'd be back early. She's worried about me."

"Hey. Don't be a stranger. Keep in touch." MacLeod held a hand out to Kenshin to shake. "Come by any time."

Kenshin grasped his hand before departing, briefly. MacLeod wondered if he'd ever see Kenshin again, or if Kenshin would avoid Seacouver now as the source of nightmares.

-----------

__

Hawai'i had actually been Kenshin's idea -- Atsuko deserved a vacation and he'd been there himself, a time or two, though never on pleasure trips. It was beautiful, it was peaceful, and plenty of residents spoke Japanese. Kenshin was eager to hear his own language again ... English just never felt _right. _Even though Marshall's Quickening had improved his grammar he still _thought _in Japanese, and the two languages were very different, and it required effort to mentally translate between them.

He glanced over at her, as the airplane taxied down the runway. She met his gaze and dropped her hand on his, squeezing. She didn't like flying, which amused Kenshin no end; _he _wasn't scared if airplanes. He didn't like the closely confined quarters, but flying didn't bother him much. Atsuko's distaste for crowds -- or crowded airplanes -- came from similar a similar source as his own, as well.

They had a third seat mate -- an eight year old boy, flying alone. The stewardess had mentioned that fact to Atsuko, who likely looked just matronly enough to be safe. The boy was sitting silently between Kenshin and the window, shoulders hunched and arms crossed. He looked about one step away from sucking his thumb, and Kenshin felt bad for him. He had nothing to amuse himself, either -- no books or games or toys. He didn't have so much as a carryon bag, as far as Kenshin had seen.

__

When I was his age I was a slave, Kenshin remembered. He wondered what the kid's story was, but it seemed to lack tact to ask the child, who was obviously very unhappy.

He reached down, pulled his laptop out of the backpack riding at his feet, and with an entirely secret smile, noticed the kid's sudden interest in the computer. Kenshin opened up Tetris, and the kid looked away. Kenshin said, "Want to play?"

__

That got him a shy grin and a nod. Kenshin handed the laptop to the kid and then retrieved a pad of paper and a pen for himself. He wadded his heavy leather duster up on his lap to prop the pad of paper on and began writing a letter to one of Yahiko's descendents in Tokyo.

"Do you fly much?" The boy said, after a minute.

Kenshin nodded. "I have family all over the world."

"I hate flying." The kid lost a round of Tetris and started over. "What's your name?"

"Ken-nii."

"I'm Logan." The boy glanced over at him. He volunteered, "My mom and dad got divorced."

Which would, Kenshin supposed, explain why the kid was flying alone. Likely he was traveling from one parent to the other.

"Do you have parents?" The kid asked.

"No," Kenshin said, sadly. "Mine died."

"You're an orphan?"

"Yeah."

"That sucks."

"It did," Kenshin agreed. Time had dulled that pain, but would never take it fully away.

"Sucks," the kid said, again. Kenshin wasn't sure if he was talking about Kenshin's history or his own misfortunes in life.

After a moment the plane started rolling away from the gate. The boy turned his attention back to Tetris and Kenshin focused on the letter. Atsuko fussed with her seatbelt, then reached under the seat in front of her, retrieved her camera bag, and retrieved a bottle of lens cleaner from one of the side pouches. She fussed with cleaning sunglasses that she didn't need to wear on the plain.

Kenshin knew she was distracting herself from the takeoff and said nothing. A couple of years in Baghdad had given her a hearty hatred for takeoffs and landings. Airplanes tended to get shot at.

This was just an ordinary commercial flight. He'd flown a couple hundred times on similar flights. Atsuko likely had flown a few _thousand _times in aircraft.

The aircraft reached the end of the runway, turned, and with a roar of engines, started to accelerate down the runway. Kenshin leaned back in his seat and temporarily put his pen away. He hated flying, he really did -- he could practically _taste _the anxiety in the cabin from the other fliers. It made him want to look for the threat when, really, there wasn't one. Flying was safe.

"I wish Sano could have lived to see planes."

He'd spoken in Japanese. Atsuko glanced over as the front wheels lifted off the ground, and then the back, and the aircraft leaped airborn. "Why's that?"

"He hated trains. Planes would have given him fits. It would have been amusing."

He wondered if Richie had any of Sano's superstitious dread of technology? He remembered seeing the boy riding a motorcycle at breakneck speeds. Likely not, then.

"I wish I could have met him." Atsuko glanced over.

"You have," Kenshin replied, still in Japanese for the benefit of little ears. He decided he might as well tell Atsuko everything, and now was as good of a time as any -- they had several hours of flight ahead of them. Time enough to tell her all about the reincarnations of friends, and to reassure her that _she _was the center of his world even if both of his past wives were reincarnated.

__

Thunk.

The acceleration skyward ... quit.

He realized something was wrong ... very wrong ... when the plane's momentum changed. It was going down, not up.

"Kenshin!" Atsuko said, alarmed, grabbing his arm.

He threw his duster over her, and wrapped his arms around her as the ground came up way, way too fast. They slammed into the runway so hard that the seatbelt bruised his hips. Instantly, they were spinning wildly. His laptop, or somebody else's laptop, he didn't know, slammed into his head. Flames exploded behind him -- he heard the _whoomph _of igniting fuel and a blast of heat. With a scream of metal the plane slid across the runway, rolling and tumbling and spinning ...

Objects battered them. He clung to Atsuko with one hand and reached for his seatbelt with the other before the plane ... the remnants of the plane ... had even stopped moving.

People were screaming. The boy next to him was howling with terror and pain. The smoke was so dense that Kenshin couldn't see a thing but he found the kid's seatbelt with his fingers and yanked it free.

It was _hot. _He couldn't breath; his throat burned and his lungs hurt as he tried to draw a breath. He gagged and coughed. Atsuko was making choking noises beside him. The kid was sobbing hysterically.

Kenshin stood up, grabbed the kid bodily, and thrust him out into the aisle. People were panicking ... the emergency exit three rows of seats behind Kenshin either wouldn't open or somebody was too terrified to operate it properly. Kenshin pushed Atsuko to her feet, grabbed the kid's wrist, and shoved them together. "Get him out!" He shouted at her, over the increasing roar of flames. He launched over the top of three rows of seats and dropped down next to the emergency exit, adrenaline and panic helping him shove back a half dozen people all jammed into one row of seats trying to escape.

They were all clustered there but nobody had _opened _it. Terrified, he guessed, too terrified to _think. _He yanked the handle up and the door swung out. The ground was several feet below, and flames raged all around. He lunged out the door, landed on the ground, turned around, and started helping people climb down. Some simply jumped and ran, others kept their heads.

He caught several children that were dropped to him, and guided a middle aged man with a terribly burned face to the ground -- the drop was about five feet. The oldest of the children was trying to help him -- a boy of about fourteen -- he shoved the man at the teenager and said, "Get him to safety!"

More people clambered out.

No Atsuko.

Kenshin paired the wounded with the walking, uttering short, commanding orders. "Get that man away from here! You, in the red ... get that old lady, keep her moving!"

The boy appeared.

Kenshin caught him when he jumped down, and demanded, "Where's my wife?"

The kid -- Logan -- stammered, "She fell! She didn't get up!"

Kenshin shoved the boy into the arms of a man in a smoldering business suit. "Get him away from here."

The heat was incredible. The boy had been the last person to jump out of the doorway -- there had been distressingly few mobile survivors. Kenshin could hear screams from within, however, and one of the people screaming might be Atsuko. He launched himself back up to the doorway and scrambled through it. The metal under his fingers was hot enough to burn; the smoke was almost a solid object.

He felt faint, and he gasped for air frantically as he crawled forward on his hands and knees. Fire swirled above his head. He reached a body ... not Atsuko, and not alive in a _chunk of torso missing _value of 'not alive.' Another, slumped in the aisle ... breathing. He grabbed the body by the ankles and pulled it towards the door and threw it out. It wasn't Atsuko ... it was a young woman, he saw blond hair.

"Get out of there!" A man screamed at him.

"Get her to safety!" He snarled back and returned to the inferno.

__

There.

He saw Atsuko's shoes -- they were comfortable sneakers. She was slumped into a seat, his duster still in her arms. She was unresponsive when he touched her. He rose onto his knees, which put his head into the swirl of smoke. His hair ignited; he slapped it out. His skin felt hot, parched, like it was sunburnt.

He grabbed Atsuko by the arm and hauled her bodily towards the door. Below, now, jet fuel burned in a roaring inferno where there had been bare pavement only a moment before. Flames licked higher than the door.

He swore, wrapped Atsuko in the duster, clapped a hand over her mouth and nose and held his breath, and _leaped_. Fire seared at him. His feet touched the ground and he _ran_, lumbering under her weight A second, two seconds, eyes closed against the inferno ...

A concussion slammed in to the ground, but he was clear.

After, they would estimate from crash to his attempt to rescue Atsuko only two and a half minutes had elapsed. It had been enough time for twelve people to make their escape before fire had consumed the cabin.

He pulled Atsuko farther from the wreckage before peeling his duster back.

She wasn't breathing.

"No!" He tried to start CPR. He felt broken ribs under his fingers, and blood soaking her shirt. Too much blood. His fingers found a piece of metal buried deep in her chest. Swordlike, it had punctured her lung and likely severed blood vessels.

He had heard her choking, but had thought the smoke had been the cause. Now, in broad daylight shadowed by a column of smoke from the wreckage, he could see the blood that had poured from her mouth and was mixed with soot. Kenshin, a survivor of war, had seen such injuries before. CPR was pointless. He pulled her into his lap and cradled her to his chest. His tears stung as they rolled down his burned cheeks.

Atsuko was gone and he sat alone on the tarmac, holding her body. He had not even had the chance to say goodbye.


	16. Chapter 16

Author's Notes I promise a whole arc in A Life Lived about Atsuko and Kenshin. You think she's outrageous now? Picture her at eighteen with a serious crush on Kenshin ...

----------------

MacLeod knew that Richie was in the dojo even before he felt Richie's buzz. Loud music could be heard from half a block away -- harsh, grinding alternative rock. _Not _has favorite choice of music.

His clients, however, seemed to love it. He'd have a mutiny on his hands if he insisted on something a little less crashy-bangy. Mac, teeth gritted, cut straight across the dojo floor and headed for the elevator. He would be able to hear the music upstairs, of course. Maybe ear plugs would be in order ...

The music cut out, and for a moment he thought that Richie had taken pity on him. Then a reporter said, "... are we live?"

MacLeod stopped short, recognizing the tone of voice that meant _breaking news_. In this day and age _breaking news _could be anything from a bad wreck on the freeway to vicious terrorism, so he listened carefully.

"Ah, thank you ..." the reporter said to someone who was, apparently, helping her get set up. Then she continued, "this is to follow up on our earlier story about the plane crash at Seacouver International. We now have confirmation that the flight was A109 bound nonstop from Seacouver to Honolulu ... the FAA has stated there are some survivors."

__

Fuck, thought MacLeod. He would bet anything that was Kenshin's flight. His heart sank; Immortals were not completely invulnerable, and there was a good chance a plane crash could kill Kenshin via dismemberment.

Richie, across the room, met his eyes. Richie was thinking the same thing.

MacLeod's phone rang. Impatiently, he flipped it open. "What?" he said, rudely, before registering that the caller was Joe.

"You saw the news?"

"Heard it on the radio. I'll head out to the airport."

"They're taking the survivors to Seacouver General. You ought to go there. If he and his wife are dead, there's nothing you can do. If he lived, he'll need out of there in a hurry."

------------

Kenshin was sitting on a bed in the emergency room, hunched under a blanket, still wearing soot-stained clothing. MacLeod almost didn't recognize him -- his hair had been singed short by flames, and his eyebrows were totally gone. Kenshin, without his long, thick red hair, somehow looked smaller.

A nurse sat with him, and looked up as they approached. "Kenshin!" Richie said. MacLeod heard relief in Richie's voice.

Kenshin looked up. His eyes were bottomless pools of misery. He said not a word -- he just slid off the bed.

"Take it easy ..." The nurse cautioned.

Kenshin coughed into a tissue that he was holding, a wet, loose sound. Immortality didn't mean complete immunity from the effects of smoke inhalation -- MacLeod knew from personal experience that Kenshin would be hacking for days until he managed to bring up all the crud in his lungs.

"Atsuko?" Richie said, though MacLeod knew the answer to that question from the look in Kenshin's eyes.

"Dead." Kenshin's voice was hoarse, from the smoke, and the feeling in that one word made MacLeod wince. Oh, brother, he knew that feeling.

A doctor came over to join them. His eyes flicked from MacLeod to Richie and then to Kenshin. "You're his friends?"

"Yeah." Richie said.

"No grief counselors!" Kenshin snapped, to the doctor. He hunched his shoulders and fell silent again, but MacLeod thought that was the tail end of a disagreement.

The doctor smiled apologetically and thrust a couple of prescriptions at MacLeod. "He won't go. The airline's paying ... he really should talk to someone."

The man looked truly concerned. Well, Mac was too. He said, "We'll take care of him."

He gave Mac a skeptical look and then put a hand on Kenshin's back and said, "You take care, Mr. Sagara. And I'm so sorry about your wife."

Kenshin stepped away from the touch. MacLeod mentally winced; the doctor was _clueless_ -- all you had to do was watch Kenshin for a couple of minutes to tell that he wasn't really the touchy-feely sort. He would offer a hug or a hand on a shoulder in comfort, sometimes, to women and children ... but accepting it from another man just wasn't going to happen.

The doctor said to Mac, in a low voice -- though not so low that Kenshin couldn't hear, "He's not hurt. By some miracle. Only one of the survivors who's not. We thought he had some burns, but it was just soot ... anyway. But there's some scripts there for Xanax and a sleeping pill, and antibiotics and prednisone for his lungs ... he inhaled quite a bit of smoke. And the Xanax ..."

"I don't need drugs." Kenshin sounded outright offended. "I told you that."

"You might later." The doctor put his hand on Kenshin's shoulder again and squeezed, then rubbed his back. "Nightmares are normal."

Kenshin stepped several paces away from the doctor, body language _screaming _'don't touch me!.' He said, in Japanese, to Mac, "Please, MacLeod-san, can we go now?" His language was absolutely and impeccably polite.

Mac had a strong suspicion that Kenshin had his share of nightmares already, and would just have a few more themes to add to the mix. Most Immortals eventually acquired quite a repertoire of vivid dreams. Still, he understood the resistance to drugs. It was a pride thing.

In the car, Kenshin was quiet and almost motionless. He sat in the back seat, arms folded, staring wordlessly out the window.

"I'm sorry," MacLeod said, finally, to break the silence.

"So am I." Kenshin's eyes met his in the rear view mirror. "Have you heard what caused it?"

"They were speculating it was geese on the radio," Richie volunteered.

"I see," Kenshin said. MacLeod knew Kenshin had been considering a few rounds of hunt-the-bad-guy if it had been terrorism. He ran a hand through what was left of his hair and said, "I need to visit a barber, I guess."

"Amanda's pretty good at hair cuts," MacLeod offered.

"Thank you. I do not like it short. It looks better long -- it tends to stand on end when it is cut short." Kenshin raked a hand through his hair -- he had a few long locks left in the back, but the front and sides were singed short. His bangs in the front had been reduced to a few blackened frizzles that left smudges on his forehead when he touched them. "I think I need a shower, too."

"You can get a shower at my place," MacLeod said. Kenshin stank of jet fuel and fear sweat.

"Or mine," Richie offered.

MacLeod glanced over at Richie, who was riding shotgun. Richie shrugged and mouthed, _Amanda_. MacLeod had a girlfriend and a one-room loft -- and both of them were assuming that Kenshin would need a place to crash that _wasn't _a hotel room for at least a few days until they could put him on another plane home to his family.

Richie said, "Ken, you can stay with me for a few days until we can get you sorted out and home."

"That is not necessary." Kenshin was nearly inaudible. "But I am honored by the offer."

Richie, Westerner and Mac judged, more than a bit overawed by Kenshin's fighting skills and general presence, nearly accepted Kenshin's refusal at face value. MacLeod, having spent more than a few years in the East, said quickly, "It won't be any trouble for Richie. Or you can stay with me."

"Sure," Richie chimed in. "You're more than welcome."

"Thank you, then," Kenshin said, accepting after only a token protest -- which MacLeod took to mean that he was welcoming their help.

MacLeod glanced into his rear view mirror, adjusting it a bit so he could see Kenshin. The man just looked lost. MacLeod judged he wasn't a danger to Richie in that state -- and likely never, really; this was Kenshin, who made MacLeod's own boy scout tendencies look positively villainous in comparison. He was _glad _that Kenshin had started taking heads, because the world needed a few more good guys who were willing to do the dirty deeds when necessary to make the world a better place.

Without further discussion, he drove to Richie's apartment. It was a _nice _apartment -- Richie had been working as a motorcycle mechanic, and a personal trainer on the side at the dojo, and between the two jobs he made a living wage.

Inside the apartment, Kenshin sat down at the kitchen table and stared out the window, still not saying a word. Richie stared at him for a moment, then pulled MacLeod aside, leading him back out the front door. Out of Kenshin's ear shot, Richie said, "What am I supposed to _say _to the guy, Mac?"

MacLeod shrugged. "Unless he wants to talk, I'd just feed him and leave him alone, Rich. He probably won't want to discuss it anyway, if I judge him correctly."

"I liked Atsuko," Richie said, heavily. "She was funny."

MacLeod glanced significantly at the door. "I liked her too."

-------------------

The doorbell rang at seven AM the next morning.

Richie, one shoe on for work, the other in his hand, padded to the door. A man in an airline uniform stood on the apartment's front steps with a cart full of luggage behind him. "Is Shinta Sagara here?"

"Yeah, I am." Kenshin appeared from the bathroom, looking like a rather young teen while wearing Richie's sweat-shirt and with Richie's jeans cinched tight around his waist. His own clothing was a total loss from the smoke and burns. He'd also lost his wallet in the crash; Richie had been planning on taking him shopping after work with the vouchers that the airline had given him.

The man shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot for a second. "This stuff didn't make it onto the plane. The luggage. Bet that's the first time you'll ever be grateful for delayed luggage."

Kenshin stared at the man for a moment, then abruptly turned on his heel and walked back into the apartment. Richie gave him a dirty look, "His _wife _died in that crash, you ass."

"Umm." The man flushed. "I ... I need his signature. To release the ..."

Richie snagged the clip board from the man and printed "Shinta Sagara" on it and thrust it back at the man. "There. Get lost."

"Umm ..."

Richie couldn't quite make the same deadly expression that Kenshin could, but he managed a reasonable facsimile. The man went from flushed to pale, and he unloaded the suitcases and one long, narrow plastic cylinder in a hurry before beating a retreat.

Richie put his second shoe on then carried the suitcases -- there were four of them -- and the sword case into the house. Kenshin stared at the luggage without a comment from across the room, where he was standing close to a window. "Hey, look, your sword," Richie said, stating the obvious and feeling nearly as stupid in saying it as the baggage handler had been.

"Thank you."

__

His wife died. He's hardly worried about the sword.

Kenshin accepted the hard plastic case when Richie carried it over to him and then set it down on the kitchen table, and popped the locks. Inside, padded with foam, the sakabatou and its laquered sheath gleamed. Kenshin said quietly, "It's a sword that has a lot of meaning to me. I've treated it ill, the last few days. It was a holy sword ... it was never meant for killing."

"Do you think ... because you killed with it ...?" Richie asked, hesitantly.

"Do I think that the plane crashed because I killed with a sword that was meant never to take a life?" Kenshin lifted an eyebrow. "No. I am not that superstitious. It was simply one of those things that happen, Richie. I've lost a lot of loved ones in my life -- sometimes, as Americans like to say, shit happens. This was simple a good example of shit, that it was."

"Oh." He felt stupid for asking. And he marveled a bit at Kenshin's ability to make _shit _sound like a cultured, high class word. It was the first time he'd ever heard Kenshin swear that he could remember. And Kenshin's voice indicated he wasn't being dismissive, just resigned to _shit happening_ without any big cosmic scheme behind it.

Kenshin ran a hand down the length of the sword's sheath. He said introspectively, "As deaths go, hers was quick. She was gone in moments. I wish I had a chance to tell her some things that I'd never said to her before, but I can still tell her now. She's certainly listening."

"If you're going to kill yourself," Richie said, "please don't get any blood on my bathroom rug."

And then he bit his lip, scared he'd made an unfortunate joke -- afraid he'd said something that would upset Kenshin. However, the other Immortal barked a short, dark laugh. "MacLeod told you about that?"

"Yeah."

Kenshin smiled wryly. It was the first brighter expression Richie had seen on Kenshin's face since they had picked him up from the emergency room, fleeting though it was. He said seriously, "It never works the way I want it. That is far from the first time I've tried to go for a visit to the other side. I never see the people I want to see. And Hiko? Hiko is an _ass_. I promise, Richie, that I will not commit suicide in your apartment."

"Hiko?"Richie queried.

"He was my sensei and he was who I saw a few nights ago. I believe that our disappointment in each other was frequently mutual in the past and he was none to pleased with me in the present, either. Given that he threatened to see that I _stayed _dead if I willfully killed myself again rather than facing what fate is handed to me, I think I'll pass on any more temporary suicides." Kenshin carried the sword to the rack just inside Richie's bedroom door. He eyed the suitcases, then said softly, "Three of those are Atsuko's, and two of them contain camera gear. There's a few kids in the family who are studying photography like Atsuko did. I'll pass her equipment on to them, that I will."

"Kenshin, I'm sorry about what happened. Do you ... do you want to talk?" Richie said, hesitantly. He wasn't sure how to _listen,_ having no particular experience with this level of soul-shattering grief. The closest thing to this he'd ever experienced had been Tessa's death, and he was self-aware enough to know that Tessa dying had hurt, but it had not hurt him like Atsuko's death was hurting Kenshin.

MacLeod had hurt like this when Tessa had died. Ri

That question got him a sideways look and a firm, "No."

"Oh. Sorry. Umm, are you hungry?"

"I haven't eaten since yesterday, but you have to go to work, that you do." Kenshin unzipped his suitcase and pulled out a neatly folded pair of Wranglers and a t-shirt.

"I can call in."

"Thank you, Richie, but I'd like some time to myself. To tell Atsuko the things I never said, but should have." Kenshin met his gaze levelly. There was something ancient and wise in his eyes that unsettled Richie; knowledge that no living mortal should have. "I mean it, about loved ones watching over and listing to you after they die."

"I've died a few times, but I don't remember much," Richie offered.

"I've learned the vivid experiences I have in the afterlife are unusual," Kenshin pulled a shaving kit out of the inside pocket of the suitcase. He didn't say more, but Richie wondered if Kenshin's formidable mental discipline had anything to do with his ability to remember what happened to him.

"Are you sure ..."

"Hai," Kenshin said, sturdily. "Yes."

"Okay." Richie wondered if he should hug the man or something, but then he remembered Kenshin's reaction to the doctor's well-meaning touches. Kenshin would likely be more diplomatic about it if a friend embraced him, but he was not a man who was overly fond of being touched. "You have my cell phone number if you need anything."

"Thank you," Kenshin said.

-------------------

Kenshin did, indeed, pour his heart out to Atsuko. He talked quietly in the silent apartment for hours, unsure if she was listening or not, but needing to _talk_. He sat at Richie's kitchen table, drank coffee, and talked to her like she was sitting across the table from him.

He told her about the reincarnations, and said he hoped she, too, would return to him someday. He told her things about his past he'd never spoken about to her before -- the death of his parents, what had happened to him as a slave, about how he had killed Tomoe, about Sanosuke's death. He was in a truly morbid mood, and normally it would have been Atsuko who would have chivvied and teased him out of it -- but she was gone forever now.

The emptiness in his heart shocked him with its ferocious, echoing, pain. When Tomoe had died he'd had a war to fight, and grim and terrible tasks to keep his mind occupied. When Kaoru had passed, his friends and family had rallied around him. When the those friends and family had grown old and died,

Who did he have now? He thought, feeling utterly alone.

He had family, of course, but not ... close ... family. Not people he could confide in. No Sanos, no Megumis, no Yahikos in this modern era. No Kenji, no Kaoru. Richie might have once been Sano, but that just made him all the more awkward to talk to, because Kenshin was very worried that he would forget that they didn't have decades of shared history and say something that would unsettle the boy.

Kenshin made casual friends easily, but he found it much harder to let people into his life. Only those folks who insisted and pushed and prodded their way into his heart ever became more than frindly acquaintances. Atsuko had really been the only person in the modern era to force her way past his habitual defenses and instinctive caution.

He would have given anything in the world to hear Atsuko answer _back_, to tease him and flirt with him and turn the most innocuous of statements into bilingual innuendo. For the last forty years -- long before they had been married -- she had been his closest friend. He'd lost his best friend as well as his lover and wife.

And now he was alone.

The doorbell rang, startling him -- he had sensed someone walking past the door but this was a large apartment complex and people were constantly passing by.

Irritated by the disruption, he rose and answered it.

Tammy stood there dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, much to his surprise. She saw him and relief flooded her expression, followed quickly by worry and sorry. "Kenshin. I heard. I'm sorry."

"Aa. So am I." He gestured for her to enter, unwilling to be impolite to this woman and tell her to go away. "Richie told you?"

She shook her head. "I read, in the paper."

He knew his look was blank. He couldn't quite wrap his mind around that statement.

"They printed a partial list of survivors and the dead."

"My legal name ..." He protested.

"... Isn't Kenshin Himura, I know. Atsuko paid with a credit card for you and I saw her surname was Sagara. So I guessed that Shinta Sagara was you. I was hoping Richie would know where you were ..." she trailed off, swallowed. "I'm not intruding, am I?"

"No." He exhaled slowly. "Thank you, for caring."

She smiled hesitantly. "I ... am sorry about Atsuko. It was so obvious that you two loved each other."

"Yeah." He met her eyes briefly. "It was so unexpected. We were going to have a holiday in Hawai'i, and then visit family. She had just quit her job so we could spend more time together -- we had been married thirteen years, and we had never had a chance to really be together more than a few weeks at a time. I was looking forward to not having to say _goodbye _to her again."

A hand rested on his shoulder. He hadn't seen her move, but suddenly she was just _there_, next to him. The sense of Tomoe was so strong that it was almost physically painful. He didn't know if he wanted to dive into her arms or flee in shock at the reminder of old grief that was certainly heightened by new agony.

"Kenshin," she said quietly, "I'm _sorry._"

He told himself he needed to be strong. He told himself that she was just a teenager; that she didn't need to worry about his troubles. He told himself, very firmly, that it was undignified and, moreover, an imposition on her to take advantage of the comfort she was offering.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, in a past life -- in what felt like a past life for him as well as her, it had been so long ago -- he had held this woman while she cried from the grief of losing her fiancé. Only later had he learned the rest of the truth; that he had been the one to kill him. She had known and she had sought his comfort anyway.

He said, very softly, "I was looking forward to never saying goodbye to her again. Now I find that I am saying goodbye to her forever, th-that I am."

Her small hand on his shoulder was heavier than it ought to be. He'd stuttered at the end, however, as a lump in his throat threatened to choke him. He was embarrassed by the display of grief that he knew was clearly written in his expression.

Her other hand rose to his opposite shoulder. She tugged and he stepped into her arms. To his surprise it didn't feel awkward to be held by her. It felt comforting ... She was tall enough, he realized in shock, that she could rest her chin on the top of his head, and she did so. That lessened the impression of Tomoe, somehow -- Tomoe had been taller than him, but not this tall. She was only average height for a modern, Western girl, but still so much taller than he was. She raised a hand to the back of his head and encouraged him to rest his head against her shoulder. "I'm sorry," she repeated.

He clung to her. He resolved not to cry, but then the tears came. It was just all too much. Even he had a breaking point and he realized in a shattering moment of clarity that he'd reached his.

She sank to the ground, pulling him with her down to Richie's carpeted floor. He clung to her, quiet now for fear that someone else might hear through the thin apartment walls, but he was so desperately needing to feel the arms around him and to hear the soft voice that murmured to him. He hadn't been held like this, comforted like this, since he was a small boy, fifteen decades before.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

It was a pointless mantra. The words didn't matter. What mattered was that someone cared.

After a bit, feeling self conscious, he pushed away and sat up, and said, "Sorry ... I don't ..."

"Tough guy, hmm?" She teased, very, very gently. It almost wasn't teasing, just a gentle observation.

He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "You have no idea."

"Do you want a glass of water? A tissue?" She sounded genuinely concerned; her worry for him, and sympathy, were utterly real, even though she barely knew him.

He reached up and plucked his own tissue out of the box on the coffee table, which was within reach. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. "I ... yeah, water."

She rose and fumbled around in Richie's kitchen and then came back with a glass of water and ice. He sipped it, and then leaned back against the foot of the couch and regarded her with eyes that were itchy and still watering. He sneezed.

"Do you want to ... talk about her?" she asked, cautiously.

He started to say no ... but then he bit his lip and hesitated. The Tomoe he had known had been strong enough to befriend, and later come to love, a boy who had been a killer -- he had been feared by even those who considered themselves his allies. He didn't think she'd changed much in this reincarnation. And she had been more than able to keep her own counsel.

He tilted his head, considering. Then, with almost a mental shrug, he said, "The story starts a long time ago, and it's probably the strangest true tale you'll ever hear. If you have several hours I can start from the beginning."

"I have nothing planned today," she said, settling down on one side of the couch. He hitched himself up to sit on the other side.

"Where to begin ..." He had never actually told his story to anyone who didn't already know the basics. He hesitated for a long, long moment -- then rose, and walked into the kitchen, with her following. She wouldn't believe him, though she might humor him, unless he showed her proof first.

When he selected a knife from the drawer of cutlery her eyes widened in alarm. When he held his hand out over the sink and slashed the palm she cried out. "Are you crazy?"

He avoided her attempt to grab his hand and made a fist as the blood oozed out. Then he rinsed his palm off under running water and displayed the rapidly closing gash. _Thank you, Marshall. You made show and tell _so _much easier_, he thought, acidly. Until a few days ago he would not have healed nearly so swiftly.

She blinked and inspected his hand. The cut sealed up without a scar right before her eyes.

"I understand from other Immortals," he said, voice sounding nasal to his own ears because his nose was stuffy, "That the traditional method of revealing our secret is to shoot oneself and die and then revive as proof of what we are. But that's messy and I promised Richie I wouldn't commit suicide in his apartment. And that should be enough to convince you that I'm something other than mortal though I am still just a man."

She stared at him.

He wiggled his fingers as the sharp ache of the cut faded, then scratched the palm. "Sit, Tammy, please. And I'll tell you my story, that I will."

He settled on the couch opposite her again. She waited, expression alert and interested ... she was, he already knew, very good at listening even to things that were said without words.

It felt good to talk to someone who simply let him talk without issuing any opinions or false platitudes. However, she didn't tease him, and he noticed that absence. She was a very serious person, and not prone to easy laughter. He missed the banter that Atsuko -- or Kaoru -- would have traded with him during a conversation like this. Kaoru's sense of humor had been more girlish than Atsuko's bawdy snark but either of them would have been able to coax a laugh from him. He missed that; he missed the spirit-lifting joy of being teased affectionately by his loved ones.

Still, it was good to tell her things that he hadn't told many people and never all at once.

The only major detail of his life that he left out was that she -- and Richie and Carrie -- were reincarnations of people he had known in the past. He judged that sort of information was best kept to himself; it was not knowledge meant for mortals and it could complicate his friendship with the three of them in the present day. Anyway, she had enough weirdness to assimilate without adding _that _detail into the mix.

"So you're a hundred and fifty years old?" she said, hours later, when he was done with most of his story. Her tone wasn't disbelieving, just musing. Then again, he'd given her very real evidence that he was something other than mortal hours before.

"A hundred and fifty-eight. Give or take. I'm not entirely sure when I was born." Kenshin smiled faintly. "I was, as I said, a farmer's son. I know it's a lot to take in ..."

"It explains a lot, actually." She propped her chin on her fist and regarded him thoughtfully. "I wondered why a young, handsome guy like you was with Atsuko. May-December romances are usually the _other _way."

Young woman, old guy, she meant.

He hoped that wasn't an indicate that she was viewing him with romantic interest, because in no way was he ready for that -- and he wouldn't be, for a long time. She would certainly be the May in a relationship between them.

__

Though Atsuko, Kaoru, forgive me, but I am not _waiting another seventy years to marry again._

He'd learned something, from Atsuko -- and that was that the pain in losing her was worth every moment of the joy he'd had as her husband. He could survive the hurt, though right now her loss felt like a raw third degree burn to his soul. He would do it all over again with someone else. He just couldn't bring to think of that _now_.

She was waiting for a response from him. He quirked his lips into a smile and said, "Well, yes, and I'm definitely the December part of that relationship -- December 31st, that I am."

From Atsuko, that sort of comment would have gotten a smirk and a laugh. Kaoru would have giggled and agreed that he was ancient. Tammy ... smiled. Politely. Her expression clearly said she wasn't sure if she was supposed to laugh at that comment. He wasn't sure if it was the comment itself was the problem -- and really, it was lame -- or if she wasn't sure if laughter was allowed this close to the death of a loved one.

He smiled back, a little sad that she hadn't at least chuckled.

He could hear Atsuko snickering in his head. She would have said something like, "Yeah, you're past your sell-by date, but you still pass the sniff test, so I love you anyway. Just don't grow any mold."

Kaoru ... Kaoru would have swatted him with a bokken and told him, "Don't be stupid!" as he pretended to be more injured than he really was.

Tomoe, his Tomoe, from so long ago, would have smiled in exactly the same fashion as Tammy was, with a bit of confusion in her eyes and uncertainty in her heart but too polite to actually express her doubt.

He rose from the couch. "Richie should be home soon. Why don't we wait outside on the steps for him? It's a lovely evening."

She brightened and followed him out the door. He made small talk -- about the weather, about her job, about Richie, about the differences between Tokyo and Seacouver and between Japanese and Western culture.

She didn't ask him any questions about Immortals, or anything about his past, and he wasn't sure if he was grateful or disappointed by this. Still, she was pleasant to talk to about even mundane matters, and she kept his mind distracted from the darkness and grief.


	17. Chapter 17

Richie woke to the smell of cinnamon and cloves, and the sound of frying. He lay in bed, a bit confused for a moment, while he tried to figure out who was cooking. Moments later his sleepy brain caught up with reality and he remembered, _Kenshin_.

He crawled out from under the covers and yanked on a pair of jeans. Kenshin was cooking in the kitchen -- he had a thick, braided loaf of bread and was making slabs of french toast from it. "Good morning, Richie."

Kenshin didn't look exactly great; there were dark circles under his eyes, and he lacked animation. However, he didn't seem morbidly grief-stricken, either. "Smells wonderful."

"Challa french toast," Kenshin said, with a smile. "And fresh strawberries and cream. This was one of Atsuko's favorites."

"You went grocery shopping already?" Richie _knew _his refrigerator had did not contain either strawberries or cream. Or challa. It did contain a bachelor diet of beer, assorted condiments, and fossilized pizza, but little else.

Kenshin flipped a slab of french toast over. "Last night, actually, very late. I could not sleep."

That would explain the dark circles under his eyes. Richie pinched a piece off one of the inch-thick slices of toast and sampled it. "Mmm! Ken, this is amazing!"

Kenshin smiled. "I thought you might prefer this over natto and rice."

"Natto ...?"

"Don't ask," Kenshin said, in an extremely dry tone, "and you'll be happier not knowing."

"Oookay ... Thank you for the breakfast." Richie helped himself to two pieces of french toast and several scoops of strawberries and a spoonful of whipped cream. "This is excellent."

"I've always loved to cook. I make a point of learning something of the local cuisine wherever I go." Kenshin paused, then added, "My second wife, Kaoru, couldn't cook at _all_. She was too impatient. That was when I really developed an interest in it."

Richie snickered. "Self defense?"

"Exactly. Though it was also satisfying to make her happy with a well prepared meal, that it was," Kenshin nibbled on a strawberry.

"So what are your plans today?"

Kenshin's eyes darkened and his shoulders slumped. "I need to make funeral arrangements for Atsuko, in Tokyo. I'm having the body cremated here -- it's easiest. It won't exactly be a traditional funeral, but I don't think she cares, and I _hate _funerals. We'll have the service in Tokyo, though ... this means dealing with her brother in law; he's not one of my favorite people in the world."

"Can I help with anything?"

"Bail me out if I punch him during the service. I did, during our wedding." Kenshin was joking, which surprised Richie. He flashed Richie a tired grin, and put a smaller single piece of toast, a tiny amount of cream, and a large scoop of strawberries on a plate.

"Why did you hit him?" Richie said, genuinely curious.

"He was drunk, and he wouldn't stop telling Atsuko about the proper roles of a man and a woman. Except that he was calling me the woman and instructing her on the roles of the man. Crudely." Kenshin paused, as he sat down at the table. "It was insulting to both of us. The fine was worth it. _Jail _time would have been worth it. I broke his nose."

"So much for being a woman," Richie snickered. The image of diminutive Kenshin busting anyone's nose with a punch was hilarious, in his mind -- Kenshin might be lethal with a sword, but at a little over a hundred pounds, and with tiny hands in proportion to his body size, it surprised him that the man would have been able to throw a punch that could do that much damage. Kenshin was much better suited to martial arts and swordsmanship styles that took advantage of his natural speed and agility than he was to boxing.

On the other hand, the guy had a temper and Richie had watched him often enough to know that he was very, very fast and very precise when he went into attack mode. And the crunch of the nasal bones of a long-time antagonist under his fist had probably been extremely satisfying.

Kenshin raised an eyebrow. "Atsuko? Would have done a lot more than broken his nose, but her sister held her back and nobody thought to grab me." Violet eyes showed a trace of real amusement. "They think of me as a benevolent, holy mystic, Atsuko says. They don't expect violence out of me. Or normal human emotions."

The amusement faded. He sighed. "I probably shouldn't have hit him, but I'd had enough of the man's venom. And Atsuko always saw me as a real person."

"Wish I had someone like that," Richie ran a hand over his short, tight red curls. "It's hard, being what we are. When do you tell them you're a freak who can't die? First date? After you have sex for the first time, or before? And then when you do, you never know how they're going to react."

He huffed an aggrieved sigh. "Mac just says to play it be ear, but I happen to know Mac's had girlfriends he's _never _told."

Kenshin picked at his toast with a fork. "Tammy knows. Not about you and Mac, but about me. It'd be easy for you to tell her."

"You _told _her?" Richie said, incredulously. "Kenshin! You barely know her!"

Kenshin serenely picked a strawberry up and dredged it through the cream.

"Kenshin, are you nuts?"

"This one has been accused of insanity many times, but that would not be applicable in this case. I had reason to believe I could trust her."

Richie swore, creatively, and with feeling, ending, "... what if she fucking tells?"

"Who? The Weekly World News?" Kenshin bit into his strawberry. "I make no secret of what I am to my friends and family. I have a very large extended family -- not so many friends these days, unfortunately. There have been occasional betrayals ... and science and logic prevail in this modern world. They are not believed."

"Yes, but ..."

"I like her. She will be a good friend. She deserved to know who and what she was befriending." Kenshin used the side of his fork to cut off a piece of french toast. He ate it dry, though there was a small bottle of maple syrup on the table -- likely, he had purchased it for Richie's benefit.

"Why don't _you _date her, if you like her so much!" Richie growled, still irritated by how easily Kenshin had given up his secret, then he froze, realizing just how untactful that was.

Kenshin also paused. He closed his eyes, set the fork down with a click, and rubbed the wedding ring on his hand. He said, "You like her, Richie. Ask her out on dates, enjoy the time with her, and do not worry about this one. I did not tell her _your _secret, and you may disclose it when you wish. However, given that she knows about us now, I would think it might be easier for you if and when you chose to tell her. And -- I trust her."

Richie sighed. "Sorry, Ken. That wasn't very tactful."

Kenshin picked the fork back up. In a forgiving tone, he said, "That's far from the worst thing that has ever been said to this one, Richie."

"Heh, I'll bet."

"After I talk to Toshio, I'll likely go by the dojo." Kenshin hesitated, then added, "I owe the kid I threatened with my sword an apology."

"Who, Daniel?" Richie snorted. "You probably did him some good. Don't get me wrong, Danny's a good kid, but he has issues."

"An apology is in order," Kenshin said, stubbornly.

"Well, he's usually at the dojo in the evenings." Richie shook his head. "Don't expect him to be graceful, though."

Kenshin gave Richie a look that felt significant, somehow. He said in a very dry tone of voice, "This one has known many troubled young men in his life."

Richie wasn't sure what Kenshin was referring to, unless that was a general observation of his history. Weirdly, though, he had the oddest feeling that he _should _know what Kenshin was talking about.

--------------------

"Moshimoshi," Toshio answered Tsuki's cell phone.

Kenshin closed his eyes and marshaled his thoughts. He also forcefully summoned his patience. He was still trying to find his voice when Toshio said acidly, "Himura-san, I know that's you."

"Toshio-san," Kenshin said, remembering the twenty-first century reality of caller ID. "Aa, it's me. Is Tsuki available?"

"Tsuki is not available," Toshio said, very clearly. Kenshin could hear a game show on in the background; it was not a television show that Toshio would ever chose to put on the television himself. He took that to mean that Tsuki -- Atsuko's sister -- was there, just not, err, available. Likely because her husband wasn't willing to hand the phone over because he didn't like Kenshin. He had not liked Kenshin long before the nose incident.

It always amazed him that Atsuko's sister, or any descendant of Sanosuke, was such a _mouse_. She had not been that way as a child; he had clear memories of Tsuki and Atsuko as teenagers and neither of them had been exactly meek. Though Tsuki hadn't exactly liked him either; she'd spent inordinate amounts of time as a teenager trying to prove him a fraud. He had found this amusing. Now, however, she was meek and submissive. It galled him to think that Toshio might have done that to her; might have broken that lovely child's spirit.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat. "Toshio, I asked you to have her call me yesterday. It's very important."

The last thing he wanted to do was to tell Toshio that Atsuko was dead first. The man had all the tact of a baseball bat, and would likely not break the news to Tsuki gently. Tsuki, as much as he'd had differences with her over the years, did not deserve that.

"What the fuck's so important you can't tell me?" Toshio said, in heavily accented English. That was a choice of phrasing that was meant as a double insult, and Kenshin knew it -- Kenshin, born a peasant, did _not _sound cultured or educated when he spoke his native tongue. Toshio frequently made an issue of it and spoke English to him because he claimed Kenshin 'didn't speak Japanese very well.'

Kenshin had neither the time nor the patience to deal with Toshio. In Japanese he demanded, "Is she there?"

His words were short, sharp, and preemptive. He'd long ago decided Toshio was not deserving of his respect. There were very many people who would be shocked to hear him talk to _anyone _in that particular tone of voice.

"What happened, did someone die?" Toshio asked, voice tone moderating only slightly. "Did something happen to my daughter?"

Toshio never called Akane by her name; she was always, 'my daughter' with an emphasis on the possessive.

"My granddaughter?" Toshio persisted. "I hear she's a delinquent. I think she just ran away; I can't believe the girl was kidnapped."

Kenshin very nearly snapped his cell phone shut. "Please," he said, patience stretched to painful thinness. "Put Tsuki on the phone. It's very important. And Akane and Carrie are fine."

He had to call Akane yet, but in that case, he wanted to tell Soujiro first. Souji could be trusted to break the news to her in a loving fashion; for all his emotional awkwardness, Souji _did _care very deeply about Akane. He'd left a message on Soujiro's voice mail the night before to call him.

"What's going on, Toshio?" Tsuki's voice, in the background.

"It's nothing. It's just that nutty ..."

"Atsuko didn't answer the e-mail I sent her yesterday. Did something happen to her?" Tsuki demanded.

Toshio sounded like he was sulking when he said into the phone, "She's here," and handed it over.

"Tsuki." Kenshin hated this sort of thing. In his long life he'd had to tell countless family members that their loved ones were dead. It was easier in person, when he could let his body language and his eyes tell the story. To find the words was too difficult. "Tsuki, I'm sorry ..."

Tsuki was holding her breath, by the silence on the other end of the phone.

"... it's your sister. There was a plane crash ... she's dead, Tsuki."

A wail.

The phone emitted scrabbling, crunching noises and then Toshio came back on as Tsuki howled in the background. "What the fuck did you just tell her?"

English, again.

"I _told her _that my _wife _was dead," Kenshin snarled.

Silence. Then, in Japanese, Toshio, said, "Uh. I'm sorry, Himura-san. -- wait a second, she wasn't in Iraq. She told Tsuki that she was going to visit you."

"Yes, Toshio, she was visiting me." Kenshin's patience completely snapped. "If she'd stayed in Iraq rather than coming to visit me she would likely still be alive. Yes, I am fully aware of it, and yes I will have to live with that fact for the rest of my life."

It was one of the few times that Toshio had actually been rendered speechless, in Kenshin's memory. Kenshin added, "I suggest you comfort your wife rather than continue this conversation with me. She just lost her sister, that she did. Ask her to call me later, when she's ready; we need to make funeral arrangements."

He snapped the phone shut. Richie had gone to work; he stood alone in the echoing silence of Richie's apartment. After a moment, he stalked to the suitcase. By habit, he looked for his duster -- but it was ruined; he needed to find a replacement -- while he could do the "sword what sword?" mind trick now he just felt _naked _wearing the sword without a coat concealing it.

Well, he'd just have to be uncomfortable. He dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, belt, and his sword. Still buzzing with annoyed -- and probably irrationally acute -- anger at Toshio he stalked out the door and found one of Richie's neighbors, an older woman, sweeping leaves up. "Pardon, ma'am," he said, "I don't mean to intrude, but could you give me the directions to the nearest barber?"

She eyed his ruined hair with some amusement then gave him directions to a hair dresser within walking distance. He fought down irritation at her, as well; she didn't know why he needed a haircut.

To make his hair look 'right' because of the uneven way it had been singed the woman at the barbershop had to cut it painfully short. She slicked it back with gel and when he looked at himself in the mirror he winced. He looked like a _kid_. He looked like he belonged attending high school. That was the other reason for the long hair -- arguably, it made him look older. He knew from experience it would take him years to grow back out, too. Immortality did not extend to regeneration of lost hair.

Habit led him to be polite to the hairdresser. However, he found himself ticked off by her, as well, for no particular reason. And habit made him reach for his cell phone; he had it open and he was starting to dial Atsuko's number when he realized he couldn't call her to commiserate about the loss of his hair.

His heart twisted; emotion threatened to choke him. It had been a casual impulse; he had been planning to joke about it with her, because she would have bitched far more than he did. She liked his long hair and had made him promise never to cut it again after he'd saved her in Vietnam.

Kenshin stood on the sidewalk in front of the hairdresser's. Mentally he growled, _Why did you have to die, Atsuko?_

Damnit.

He was ... angry. Not at the people around him, but at life in general. It was unlike him, and the sensation of generalized fury was unfamiliar and unsettling. He wanted to go kill something ... beat the shit out of something, at best. Even as a hitokiri he had never dealt with this sort of inner fury.

Teeth gritted, he decided now would be a very good time to go work some of the aggression out at the dojo. It was a dangerous mood he was in; he was more than self-aware enough to recognize that.

------------------

MacLeod was giving a personal sparring lesson to one of his clients when Kenshin entered. He looked up alertly as Kenshin entered, feeling his buzz, and the guy promptly swung a blow at Mac's head.

MacLeod swatted the man's hand aside and drove him into the ground with a tackle. "Good," he said, approvingly, offering him a hand back up. "Let's call it a day."

The man growled something rude under his breath and headed for the showers. Mac let the comment slide; the man was mostly putting on an act and Mac had figured him out a long time ago. Bit of a weenie, Mac thought, _trying _to look tough.

MacLeod eyed Kenshin appraisingly. Kenshin had a sullen look on his face -- it was an expression that Mac had never seen there before. _Ken _was the sort of tough that MacLeod genuinely respected, and he was the sort of fighter than most of his students would rarely get a chance to observe. "Mac, do you mind if I use the weight machines?"

"Be my guest. You can leave your stuff in my office."

__

Leave your sword in my office, he meant. While he was certain Kenshin wouldn't actually kill anyone he didn't trust the little Immortal at the moment to avoid less than lethal swordplay ... he was too obviously unstable and unbalanced. Even before Atsuko had died, Kenshin had been on a dangerous edge.

He watched Kenshin covertly for several minutes while he waited for his four PM customer. The woman who was scheduled for a session after his last client was late -- he wasn't surprised, she was a bit of a flake. Ken's body language, and the way he practically attacked weight sets, told Mac he was in a very bad mood. _Bad mood _was allowed, given the week that the poor guy had just had, but if he'd been anything but Immortal Mac would have probably cautioned him on the amount of weight he was lifting.

He was a little guy; he was pushing himself to his absolute limits, and was at risk of injuring himself. Well, any injuries would heal before he'd finished a shower, after the workout.

"Ken," he finally said, his voice catching the attention of several other people. "Want to go a round or two? Hand to hand, best two of three throws."

Kenshin paused from doing leg curls. He scowled briefly, then his expression cleared -- likely by force of will. "I would prefer not to."

Kenshin, MacLeod judged, was in a particularly foul mood. A couple or three rounds of beating on each other might do him a world of good. He _needed _to let some of the anger and grief in his heart out.

"Scared I'll beat you?" MacLeod taunted, which _really _got the interest of pretty much everyone in the room. MacLeod was very, very good at several different martial arts disciplines, and there weren't many people who could seriously challenge him. Richie sometimes took him down, and but that was about it.

Kenshin unhooked his legs from the machine, mopped sweat from his face with a towel, and wordlessly walked over to the matt.

Yeah, they had an audience. Good. Maybe some of his students would learn something from this match. MacLeod wasn't entirely convinced he would win this round.

Kenshin stripped out of his shirt and tossed it aside, then pulled his hiking boots off. MacLeod was unsurprised to see the calluses on Kenshin's feet; the man did katas barefoot for what Mac guessed would be hours every day. He'd have to train hard and often to keep up his level of physical fitness.

Eyes glittering, Kenshin stood waiting for MacLeod to make the first move. He looked pissed. MacLeod didn't take it personally -- he _knew _that mood. He also knew he was probably about to get the shit beaten out of him, but it would be good for the students to watch, and what was the point of being Immortal if you didn't occasionally take advantage of the rapid rate of healing?

Apparently growing impatient with MacLeod's own patience, Kenshin launched into an attack. He moved too fast to follow, but MacLeod had read him right -- the first blow was a kick at MacLeod's head. Kenshin was very fast, and very agile, and capable of jumping amazing heights into the air, and he was going to take full advantage of it.

He caught Kenshin's foot -- the blow _hurt _and knocked his fingers back into his head, but he managed to flip Kenshin backwards. Kenshin landed on his hands, did a somersault, and came back to his feet and -- as MacLeod had been expecting -- immediately hurtled back at Mac.

This time it was a blow aimed lower, a kick again; Kenshin didn't have the right balance to launch himself airborn. The blow nailed MacLeod in the arm hard enough to make him stagger. His fingers went instantly numb. Kenshin wasn't pulling his punches at all. Had that kick connected with his hip instead of his forearm he'd have gone down.

They circled each other. MacLeod wondered if Kenshin was looking for an opening or if he was planning on making his _own _opening. As fast as the guy was, he wasn't sure he could block every blow even if he knew the exact moves Kenshin was going to pull.

Ken tried for another kick to the head. MacLeod countered it the same way, flipping him backwards. He also took a large step back and was very satisfied when Kenshin's fingers only brushed his shirt rather than grabbing him. The shrimp had been planning on yanking him off balance.

MacLeod was already moving as Kenshin backflipped across the matt. He kicked Kenshin's hands out from underneath him as he landed on them. Kenshin went down hard, with an audible smack, and MacLeod planted a foot on his throat.

"That's one," MacLeod said, mildly.

Kenshin's eyes were gleaming gold when Mac let him up. The raw anger on the man's face raised the hair on the back of MacLeod's neck. Kenshin was quivering with fury; he had looked at Marshall in about the same way, only less _pissed_.

Kenshin stood, quivering, jaw clenched. Then in Japanese Kenshin hissed, "This fight stops now. I am not angry at _you_."

"Kenshin," MacLeod said, belatedly realizing that a sparring match with the man might not have been the best of ideas. "Hey. I'll be upstairs in a bit if you want to talk."

He didn't really expect Kenshin to accept the invitation, but he suddenly spun around and walked quietly and with a great deal of dignity to the elevator, where he inserted his key into the lock. The elevator rumbled out of sight.

MacLeod let out a breath he had not known he was holding. He thought, with some bemusement, that he'd probably just come closer to losing his head than he had in a few decades. Kenshin had looked furious enough to dismember somebody with his bare hands.

-----------------------


	18. Chapter 18

Author's Notes I am going to be writing fic significantly more slowly in the very near future, because a web development project is coming together and -- finally -- the _development _end is just about done. I mean it this time, alas -- this is potentially a once in a lifetime project and the fic has to take a back seat. I will still be writing, but sloooowly.

--------------

Kenshin stood by the bank of windows, arms folded, jaw set. MacLeod had given him fifteen minutes to get a grip before going up to his loft but he didn't look substantially calmer.

"What happened?" MacLeod asked.

Kenshin looked weird without his hair. Smaller, younger, and somehow less. Just ... less. And the anger radiating off him was completely out of character. If MacLeod had run into this man on the street, without seeing his transformation over the last week, he likely would not have recognized him.

Kenshin started to run a hand over his hair. His fingers found the prickly, gel-stiffened spikes and he balled his fingers into a fist instead. Sullenly, he said, "I hate feeling this way ... this rage. And it just makes me even angrier that I do feel like this. My emotions are out of control. I am _never _out of control."

"It's the Quickening," MacLeod said, "from Marshall."

"I was _dealing _with it." Kenshin growled. "I was fine. Until I talked to Gods-damned Toshio."

"Your brother-in-law?" MacLeod summoned the name up from the snooping, err, research he'd done on Kenshin.

Miserably, but with a sudden lessening of anger, Kenshin said, "Aaa. He's a complete fool."

"The doc did write you a script for ..."

Kenshin gave MacLeod a very dirty look.

MacLeod held his hands up. "Kidding, Kenshin. I was trying to lighten the mood. Look, you _are _dealing. And not every Immortal could handle the Quickening you took. You are going to be fine."

"And at the end? If I'm 'fine' but I'm not _me_?" Kenshin's words were grim and too precise. "What is the point of surviving if I end up someone else at the end? If Kenshin Himura is effectively dead? I _know _who I am, Mac -- or who I was. I was very happy with who I was. I didn't want to change. And it is being forced upon me. I don't even know who I am anymore!"

MacLeod sighed. Kenshin, he'd figured out awhile back, was a bit of a control freak -- oh, not about _others _in his life, but about his own life. It was a common trait among people who were the very best at any discipline. The same perfectionism that let him be one of the most brilliant swordsmen that Mac had ever seen also meant that he placed incredibly high demands on himself. He expected far more out of himself than he did out of anyone else in the world.

It said something about Kenshin's personality that he didn't expect everyone else around him to be perfect. If anything, Mac suspected, Kenshin put up with more crap than he ought to and probably got regularly taken advantage of because he was too nice to say 'no!'

"Ken," Mac said, "Life's about change. I'm not the man I was four centuries ago. You're not the man you were during the Bakufu. Life goes on, and things happen, and we adapt to them. The important thing is that you keep track of your values -- which, in your case, I highly doubt you'll ever lose, stubborn as you are."

That last comment earned him another glare. Well, he was still trying to tease Kenshin a little bit. Kenshin responded well to teasing, most of the time.

Kenshin made another abortive attempt to rake his hands through his hair. Mac sympathized; he was pretty attached to his own pony tail. He said, finally, and very stiffly, "Thank you."

"You're welcome, I think," MacLeod said. He walked to the refrigerator and took out two ice cold beers from the very back, coldest part of his fridge. Kenshin eyed the bottle warily before accepting it. Well, given how disgustingly drunk they'd both gotten a few days before, maybe Kenshin was feeling the need to avoid alcohol for awhile.

"Kenshin," Mac said, slumping into a kitchen chair, "I'm far from an expert on getting into other people's heads. So tell me to go fuck off if I'm really far off base here -- but I've been there, with the hurting and the blaming myself. More than once. Tessa's death was _my fault _in multiple ways, not the least of which was simply by inviting her into my world, I put her into danger."

Kenshin popped the top off his bottle with his thumb, took a swig of the beer, and said introspectively, "I've spent a lot of time blaming myself for things I did wrong, Mac. You know, there's a pretty decent chance that my first death was because I starved myself and willed myself to die."

MacLeod gave him a sharp look, startled by that.

Kenshin grimaced in memory. "I though Kaoru -- my second wife -- was dead. And I thought she had died because of an enemy I had made fifteen years before, who had killed her to exact vengeance on me. I was wrong, but at the time, I had ample reason to believe I'd lost her."

He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs, sat down on it, propped his elbows on his knees and dangled the beer bottle by its neck. After a moment, he looked up at MacLeod. "I learned something, then."

"What's that?"

"That no matter how badly I mess things up, no matter who gets hurt because of my stupidity or carelessness ... I have to go on. Because I have so much to atone for with my life." Kenshin twirled the beer bottle between his fingers for a long moment. "I don't have the _right _to give up."

MacLeod snorted. "Ken, you were a soldier. You were following orders, as soldiers are supposed to do. I've killed people too. Even ambushed and assassinated a few, when it had to be done. I fail to see why you're still torturing yourself a hundred and forty-some years later over things you did as a dumb teenager."

Kenshin sipped the beer. "I said I would kill if, at the end, it ushered in a new era of peace. I was ... wrong ... in my approach. Good people died simply because they were fighting for the wrong side of the war. I allowed myself to be _used _against my own people -- it didn't matter which side of the war they were on, they were all Japanese."

"Japan's turned out to be a rather good place to live," MacLeod pointed out, disturbed by the guilt etched on Kenshin's face. He thought Kenshin seriously overestimated the depth of his crimes, given what he knew of the time, place, and of Kenshin himself. "There were some pretty dark years there, but, overall, things worked out for the best. Your country has done well for itself. You did lay the seeds of better times."

Kenshin gave him a dark look. "It took far too long and I can't say any of what I did directly led to what we have today." He twirled the bottle again with his head hanging down. "Mac, I don't even know where to go from here."

MacLeod shrugged. "Live day to day until something comes up where you can help. It's pretty much what I do."

Kenshin took a long pull from his bottle. "I swore once, a long time ago, that I'd protect those around me -- those I could see, those people I personally knew."

"So keep doing that. It's who and what you are." MacLeod added, after a second, "Remember, I've read your file with the Watchers. You're one of the best of us."

Kenshin snorted a laugh and said, "Hardly that, Mac," and drained the rest of the beer.

"You know that your Watcher's primary source of information on you is Toshio?"

Kenshin's head shot up. Amber glinted in his eyes, "This one is going to _kill _him."

MacLeod pointed a finger at him. "Ah-ah. You don't like to kill, remember?"

Kenshin dropped his head into the cradle made of his hands, beer bottle dangling from two fingers. With a chill, MacLeod realized Kenshin had not entirely been joking. It wasn't a serious threat, but the sentiment had been honest. He murmured, "Gods, Mac."

"For what it's worth, my Watcher likes your Watcher. He made sure you were assigned someone with integrity. You might consider getting to know her; they can be useful people. And then, at least, you'd know that the data in your file was accurate."

Kenshin glanced up. "Dawson is your friend." There was mild censor in his voice, for referring to a friend as _useful_.

MacLeod snorted and said defensively, "Well, he is."

"Mmm." Kenshin stood up, drained the last of the beer, and carried the bottle to MacLeod's kitchen trash. MacLeod watched him go. "Thank you, Mac -- for your hospitality, and your wisdom. I need to take your leave now; I have some more calls to make. I have a funeral to arrange and family to talk to, about their wishes."

-------------------

Richie sat on his couch, trying to focus on the low murmur of his television. Kenshin was at the kitchen table, cell phone to his ear, and it was very difficult to ignore Kenshin's conversation with his family members.

Granted, it was in Japanese, but the _tone _was distracting.

Kenshin was quiet, subdued. He sat at the desk with a new laptop -- his old had been lost in his carry-on luggage -- and occasionally he typed, but mostly he talked in a quiet voice to family members.

After a bit he dialed a new number and switched to English -- speaking to somebody named George Trevor. "...I thank you for the e-mail you sent ... thank you ... I am ... not well, but ... yes, to be expected ... Georgie-kun, your father would be proud of you ... no, you do not need to come ... if you want to, you'd be welcome, but it will be a very expensive flight ... I can help, a bit, if you and Gracie want to attend ..."

Some long minutes later Kenshin folded his cell phone closed, pocketed it, and shut the laptop down as well. He sighed and said quietly, "My great-grandson. I've a couple hundred descendents from my adopted son Kenji; George is a good man."

Kenshin added, sounding guilty, "He's too old to be traveling, and he doesn't speak any Japanese, but there's no dissuading him, that there isn't. Atsuko lived with his daughter when they were going to college, so he knows her fairly well."

After a moment, in a subdued tone, Kenshin corrected himself. "... Knew her fairly well."

"You're the only Immortal I know that's kept ties to his family for so long," Richie observed. "Mac's family turned on him -- they thought he was a demon -- when he revived. I've never _had _a family; Mac's it, for me. And Joe, I guess. And Tessa, before she died."

Kenshin gave Richie a sad smile. "Not all of them like, or trust me, but I swore oaths to friends long dead to look after their descendents."

"So they're stuck with you?"

Kenshin smiled. "If I live as long as the legendary Methos, I might find myself protecting all the world. Particularly the way that the Himuras have taken after this one's wandering ways."

Richie shot him a sharp look, wondering what Kenshin knew about Methos. Likely no more than the average Immortal, Richie concluded after a moment's unease. Certainly he didn't know that Adam was that mythical figure or he would have said something. Richie said, "Didn't think those oaths through, did you?"

"I didn't expect to live to see the twenty-first century." Kenshin's sigh was short and sharp.

"Do you miss the past?" Richie asked, curiously.

Kenshin shrugged. "I miss the people. I miss my friends and family. But I don't miss the time. The past isn't so romantic when you've lived it. I happen to like electric lights, running hot water, and flush toilets." There was another one of those curious pauses before he added, in a quieter tone of voice, as if remembering old personal tragedies, "... and modern medicine."

"I guess."

"My parents died for want of a few drops of bleach in their drinking water, or failing that, a few pennies worth of oral electrolytes and an simple antiobiotic," Kenshin said, bluntly. "_Gatorade _could have saved their lives."

Then he blinked, and said, "I am sorry, Richie. I'm afraid I am not the most polite of guests, at the moment."

"Nah." Richie sat down on the couch next to him. "You're fine."

"I've got a flight out to Tokyo tomorrow," Kenshin volunteered, after a moment.

"Oh. Well, I hope we'll meet again." Richie reached a hand out and squeezed Kenshin's shoulder. "Maybe under better circumstances. We could, I don't know, hang out or something? Someday."

Kenshin smiled, suddenly, eyes tired but expression genuine. Belatedly, Richie remembered Kenshin generally disliked being touched, but he wasn't flinching away now. "Thank you, Richie."

"For what?"

"For ... being you, that is all." Kenshin's expression turned a bit confused. "For taking me in. It would have been very ... hard ... to be alone right now."

Uncomfortable himself, Richie flashed Kenshin an uncertain smile. "Want to go to Joe's for dinner? If you're done with the phone calls?"

Kenshin gave his phone a positively loathing expression. "Aa. That would be good. And I have some calls to return from her colleagues and the press, but that can wait until later."

"Press?"

"She was well enough known for her photography that there are a few reporters writing stories." Kenshin closed his eyes. "I want to make sure that everyone in the family knows before the articles are published. I still have to reach Akane and Soujiro -- likely, they're busy getting Carrie back into school."

-----------------

Kenshin found himself thinking, _Atsuko would like this bar_, as he walked through the front door. A blues band played on the stage, and the atmosphere was relaxed and neighborly.

The ki of several Immortals could be felt -- Amanda, MacLeod, and Adam were seated at a table. Richie headed for the group and Adam gave Kenshin a suspicious look as he followed Richie in pulling up a chair.

"I'm sorry about your wife," Adam said, finally.

"So am I," Kenshin replied.

"Been married a few times myself." Adam hunched his shoulders and regarded Kenshin with a gaze that was only a little less wary. "The last time was for less than six months."

"What, she left you?" Kenshin snarked, before he could stop himself, because he really didn't like this man and figured he never would. It was a terribly rude thing to say, and Kenshin wished he could blame it on Marshall's Quickening, but it was more about the fact that after a hundred and forty years he could still remember his captain's broken whimpers of pain.

There were indrawn breaths all around the table, from everyone but Adam.

Adam sipped his beer and said, quiet calmly, "No, she died of cancer. Of course, I knew she was sick when I married her, and the pain of losing her was worth it. I made sure that the last six months of her life -- at least until the cancer consumed her alive before my eyes -- were the best."

Kenshin shut his mouth and then, after a moment of contemplating just _how _rude he had been -- the others were staring at him still, aghast -- he said, "I'm very sorry, Adam. That was an unnecessary statement."

"Oh, I quite understand." Adam set his beer down. "You don't like me at all, and I don't think much of you, either. Granted, I don't dislike you for the reasons I did up to a few days ago; now I just think you're an idealistic fool who is damned unpredictable because his idealism is warring with reality and he's stubborn enough to try to bend reality to his ideals. That mindset makes you unusually dangerous because it makes you unpredictable. But I'm not going to hold that little comment against you; I suppose I did earn your bile a long time ago."

Kenshin blinked at him and tried to think of something to say. He failed to come up with any response at all before Amanda said, "Adam, does he actually _need _a reason not to like you?"

Adam snorted a laugh, looking a lot more relaxed -- perhaps, Kenshin thought, because he hadn't risen to Adam's bait. If Adam had indeed been baiting him. The man was maddeningly difficult to understand.

Adam said, to Amanda, "Oh, come on, you act like _everybody _hates me."

"I could make a good argument for that," Richie said.

"I'm so wounded." Adam grinned at Richie, who simply snorted in response.

The door opened, and every single person at the table shot it a quick and keen glance, even though the person entering wasn't Immortal. Kenshin noted that response; his friends -- well, his friends and Adam -- were all warriors and cautious from long experience. He'd known that of three of them, but Amanda's reaction was just as sharp as the other's. It told him something.

He couldn't see who had entered at first, then she moved into the bar's lights, and he felt a real smile touch his lips. "Tammy!"

"Tammy!" Richie and Adam _both _echoed him, just a split second behind him, so that their greetings overlapped.

Her eyes lit up. She walked over, said, "Adam? Richie? Kenshin? You guys know each other?"

Richie said, "Unfortunately."

"Hey! What is this, pick on Adam night?" Adam protested.

Tammy smiled at him, a gentle smile that made Kenshin's protective urges surge. "And you love it."

She stopped next to Kenshin, and he rose reflexively, intending to offer her his chair. Without hesitation she _hugged _him, then said, while he was still registering that he'd been embraced in public by a pretty young girl, she said, "Are you okay?"

__

Westerners, he reminded himself, as he raised a hand to the back of his head and turned several shades of scarlet. _This is culturally appropriate behavior for a modern western girl._ "Et-to ..." he stammered, "... let me get another chair, and please, join us."

"I didn't mean to embarrass you ..." she said, uncertainly, "I am sorry."

"It is already forgotten, so do not worry about it." He claimed a chair from an empty table and pushed it over. He gestured at the chair, and she sat, and he returned to his seat. He explained briefly, "Maa, maa, I'm a bit old fashioned, is all. You took me by surprise, that is all."

She was also blushing, almost as bright as he was. He winced to see how uncomfortable she was. He hadn't meant to make her squirm. And truthfully, he was so used to friends who would make such a reaction from him a _joke _that he found it odd to be in the position of being careful in what he said and didhe found his thoughts drifting fondly to Kaoru and Yahiko, and their tendency to harass him until he was reduced to wordless _Oros! _of protest.

Kenshin changed the subject, and forced his attention back to the present. "So how do you know Adam?"

"Same way I know you and Richie and Mac. He comes in for lunch sometimes. Later, generally, than they do. The coffee shop's popular; half the folks living in this area stop in sooner or later. So you're all friends?"

"We've all known each other for a long time," Adam hedged.

The waitress finally showed up to take their orders; Kenshin handed her his passport out of pure habit to prove he was of age. She didn't card Tammy when Tammy ordered a glass of wine; Kenshin wondered if Tammy was nineteen -- the legal drinking age here -- but he didn't say anything.

MacLeod did, however, as soon as the waitress was gone. "Tammy? You old enough?"

She blinked at him and said, sounding mildly hurt, "I turned nineteen last month."

That was at least two years older than Kenshin would have guessed.

"The bar owner's a friend of ours," MacLeod said, somewhat apologetically, "I didn't want him getting in trouble."

Tammy sighed. "Everybody thinks I'm younger than I am."

"I understand that feeling," Kenshin said, ruefully.

She looked at him, and smiled, and to his eyes obviously getting the joke. He was reassured that she in no way indicated anything about the secret he'd told her; she didn't know the others were Immortal and wasn't giving anything away. As far as she knew, it was just their joke.

Kenshin said, to both her and the rest of the people at the table, "I'm going back to Tokyo. My flight leaves tomorrow morning."

"Oh." She stared down at her hands.

MacLeod said, "I hope you'll visit here someday under better circumstances, Ken."

"I definitely will," he said, and he _meant _it. He was surprised by just how much he meant it. He would be back. Largely, this was because his curiosity was tweaked by the reincarnations of his friends. He wanted to know _why _they were back here, now. It was reason enough to come back.

That statement earned him a quick, fleeting, but very happy smile from Tammy. He caught the expression out of the corner of his eye, but when he glanced over at her, she was looking down on the table again.

He said, a bit too cheerfully, because her behavior discomfited him on multiple levels, "So I understand that Richie's taking you out to the movies?"

She blushed and stared at her hands when Adam and Amanda both hooted approval. MacLeod said, more sensibly, "I'm happy to see Richie has some taste in women, at last."

"Hey!" Richie protested.

MacLeod's statement led to several rounds of teasing Richie; Tammy watched with wide, astonished eyes as they reduced him to blushing, inarticulate protests as they detailed a multitude of embarrassing things he'd done in the past. They started with several examples of _bad _choices he had made in girlfriends, and then proceeded to razz him about everything from his bikes to his choice in clothes to the time he'd been a used car salesman.

Kenshin let their conversation wash around him. At another time he might have taken cheerful part in the Richie-roast -- not that he had known Richie very long, but he could have at least been a peanut gallery, interjecting the occasional observation of an ironic nature. However, as it was, he was glad to simply sit back and let the dialogue wash around him. He was glad to no longer be a center of attention.

He was also relieved that nobody mentioned Atsuko for the rest of the evening. The pain was too ferociously fresh. He simply wanted to be distracted, for a bit -- and that wish to _not think about her _for a few hours made him feel horribly guilty.

And the pain came roaring back at the close of the night when, while saying goodbye to the others on the steps of the bar, he, by habit, mentally calculated the time difference between Seacouver and Baghdad and absently thought he might try to call Atsuko and tell her about the evening's events. Except that she was dead, and forever gone.

His expression must have shown something of his thoughts because Tammy touched his arm. "You okay?"

"Just ... memories."

"Here," she pushed a bit of paper into his hand. "I know you don't have many people to talk to. Give me a call if you need to vent. I'll always listen."

"Thank you," he murmured, and he found himself bowing briefly to her.

She giggled.

Confused by her giggle, he quickly pocketed the note.

He wanted to hug her, for her kindness, and her friendship. But before he could summon the nerve she turned away, and said a farewell to Richie and Adam and the moment was gone. Perhaps, he thought, it was for the best.

The slip of paper -- a pink post-it note -- was as heavy as a brick, in his pocket. He felt horribly guilty even for accepting it, though when Atsuko had been alive, he would have not thought twice about taking the number of a friend for conversation later.

Still, he would keep it. And he figured he just might call her. Because she had once been Tomoe, and because she was so very good at _listening_ without making suggestions or offering criticism. If he wanted advice he'd call Mac; Mac gave it freely, and in sometimes annoying quantities. But if he just wanted to talk?

Yes.

He slipped his hand back into his pocket, retrieved the note, and put it more carefully into his wallet.

Yes, he would call her. Eventually.


	19. Chapter 19

Author's Notes: This story is complete in rough draft format in my LJ, ljmouse. I'll be posting the last four chapters over the next few days, as time permits.

I am being fairly vague with Japanese funeral traditions -- I've done a fair amount of reading, but I'm also allowing for the fact that Kenshin wasn't exactly holding to tradition, and he had Atsuko cremated overseas. I apologize for anything I got grossly wrong or culturally impossible. I'm trying to get things right, but I'm a dumb American sometimes.

-------------

Kenshin hadn't been in his Tokyo apartment in several weeks; unfortunately, he was not alone in the apartment to enjoy being home. Kenshin had followed Atsuko's wishes in arranging the funeral and this had upset several people close to Atsuko, including her sister. And Toshio was angered by the fact that Tsuki was upset although Kenshin suspected if he _had _arranged for a traditional funeral, Toshio would have been pissed off by the cost.

"You should have shipped the body home," Toshio said, to Kenshin. "My wife's been crying all week. You ruined things!"

Kenshin winced, not because Toshio was mad, but because Tsuki was, indeed, truly upset that there would not be a traditional funeral, including the cremation ceremony. Kenshin had seen to the cremation of the body in Seacouver; he had ensured that things had been handled appropriately, but the family had not been there. He regarded Toshio with as much aplomb as he could manage from his seat at the desk. Toshio stood in the very tiny kitchenette, arms folded, and a glower on his face.

"Atsuko specified to me that I should have her body cremated wherever she died and the ashes shipped home, that she did," he said, with as much patience as he could muster. "I have explained this to you before. She was concerned that her body would be badly decomposed by the time it arrived and smell offensively and she did not want to be embalmed. It was her request."

Atsuko had seen a lot of death in her life, Kenshin thought. She had developed a gut-level reaction to the smell of death that went beyond disgust and into absolute horror. She had told him, on multiple occasions, to cremate her body before she started to stink and rot. Kenshin had respected that; had understood how much the idea had bothered her.

"That woman didn't care for anyone but herself. You, however, profess to be this family's guardian. You should have done what the family wanted."

Kenshin met his gaze with a sharp glare. He resented many things about Toshio's attitude towards him; one was the man's persistence in treating him as if he were a servant. He said calmly, "I followed Atsuko's requests about the disposition of her remains."

"She had no concern for the feelings of her family. They're distraught! You should have thought of that. _You _were the one making the arrangements. And _you _are her heir, I do believe. How do I know you did this just to save a few bucks for yourself?"

"Forty years you've known me, Toshio, and you still understand nothing of me or my motives," Kenshin shot back, needled. "I made the arrangements because no one else would have honored her wishes -- Toshio, please. At another time I might find an argument with you stimulating, but at the moment, I'd rather avoid it. What is done is done and cannot be undone, and by shouting at me you simply seek to prove yourself better than this one."

Toshio stared at Kenshin.

"It is true, is it not?" Kenshin prompted, voice almost gentle.

Toshio ran a hand over his balding head, and said, "I'm not going to argue with you. You're not in your right mind right now."

Kenshin only barely managed not to favor Toshio with the two-fingered salute he'd learned a long time ago from the Trevor side of the family. "Leave me, Toshio. If I'm not in my right mind, I might be ... dangerous."

Toshio scrambled to his feet and left. In a hurry. Kenshin didn't smile after he was gone; that had been a cheap shot and he felt more than a bit guilty for it.

The apartment was quiet. It was the middle of the day and this was a decidedly middle-class apartment building, built in the seventies. Most of his neighbors were at work. No noise filtered through the thin walls except for the distant sound of a television somewhere. His tiny refrigerator made ticking noises, and after a moment, the plumbing in the wall gurgled.

He glanced around, looking for something to do occupy his hands and his mind -- but he'd spent most of the night cleaning, because he couldn't sleep, and the apartment was spotless. And it wasn't as if he had much to clean to start with because it was just a tiny studio. The entire apartment was slightly smaller than Richie's kitchen; there were times when being short was a distinct advantage, and living in a Tokyo home was one of them.

His decorating tastes were distinctly traditional -- tatami mats, a futon to sleep on, a low table, and a desk and chair filled the apartment. A cabinet on one wall concealed a television, DVD player, and several hundred DVDs -- he unashamedly liked movies, particularly what Atsuko called, teasingly, _escapist fantasy_. But you couldn't see the television unless the cabinet was open, so the feel of the room was very old fashioned.

This was deliberate. This apartment was his sanctuary.

He had a few mementos neatly arranged with candles in a shrine in the corner -- not so much because he was overly religious, but because a shrine was the traditional thing to do with such things. There were photographs of family long dead, and now not so long dead, and the shrine had a small lacquered box as well.

He knew the contents of the box by memory.

There was a century old hair ribbon in there, with his blood stains on it, that had once been Kaoru's -- she had discarded it angrily after he had bled on it, and he had retrieved it and kept it. Long ago she had given him the ribbon to hold for her, with the promise that he bring it back to her, because she feared he would return to wandering. _Jin-e_, he remembered, with an ancient chill. How close he had come to traveling a different path in his life. Had he been lost to the Battousai that day, where would he be now?

__

If Kaoru had not had the strength to break his curse I may well have ended up the man that so terrified Adam when he realized I was a pre-Immortal. The thought was sobering, but only briefly considered; he turned his attention back to a mental inventory of the box.

As well, there was a tiny but perfectly formed vase: Hiko's work. When Hiko had died he had been blind and indigent, living on the charity of friends. All Hiko had left Kenshin was the vase. Kenshin still didn't know why Hiko had willed it to him. It was a puzzle, and it made him feel very much like a _baka deshi _because he didn't understand it.

There was a piece of cloth with hand and footprints of Raiko Sagara in white paint on it, and her clumsy handwriting with her name and "Age 5" and the words "To Uncle Kenshin." Sano's daughter, from over a century ago. He was often amused by to see similar creations from modern children.

There were mementos from his own adopted children: schoolwork from the Himuras, a set of watercolor brushes that had belonged to Kenji, and a collection of postcards from all over the world from Yukio.

He had Aki's college diploma, and a newspaper clipping from the 1940's that talked about Himura Aki, then a wealthy expatriate businessman, buying a rich man's house in the years after WW2. Aki had turned it into a high school for international studies. Very few people knew that a dojo had stood on that land before Aki had bought it, or why, to this day, there was a standing scholarship available every year for five orphans.

The endowment for the scholarship had run out a few decades ago, a victim of inflation and unlucky investments. Kenshin quietly funded it now. His accountant cursed, because the school was both very prestigious and very expensive. It was his accountant's opinion that the reason that Kenshin was only 'comfortable' and not 'wealthy' was the large chunk of money he put into that scholarship every year.

Kenshin didn't really care about wealth. His apartment was sufficient for his needs, and he had enough money to eat, travel, pay his utilities and cell phone, and buy the occasional gadget, DVD or manga, or gifts for the kids. What else did he need?

The box also contained a few of the last letters he had received from Misao ... decades after her death, reading those letters could often still make him smile. How anyone could be that _spazzy _in her _nineties _in a _letter _was beyond his ken.

Her granddaughter was attending the services and would arrive tomorrow. Kenshin smiled faintly, thinking of the woman -- Misao had over a dozen grandchildren still living, but Ikuko reminded him the most of Misao.

Kenshin slid a hand into his pocket and retrieved Atsuko's wedding ring. He opened the lid of the box and gently set the ring inside. It clicked against Hiko's vase; he wrapped Karou's hair ribbon around it so that it wouldn't chip the vase.

He would wear his own wedding ring for awhile yet, perhaps until the next woman entered his life ... and here his thoughts skittered away in denial that there would ever be anyone else, but he also knew, academically, that there would be. Someday.

He bowed his head before the shrine and remembered all the people he had lost. Of course, some of his friends and family had reincarnated. Would he ever see the others? He wished Tomoe and Sano had been more _specific _when they had told him, in a visit from beyond the grave, that his friends were fated to intersect with his life again, and again.

Were the others watching over him? He didn't know.

__

Yahiko, he thought, _and Misao and Aoshi. Megumi. The children. Jessica and Kenji. Byron. Shinya. Where are you? Are you alive now?_

Mother. Father.

He rarely thought of his long deceased parents, but the thought sometimes occurred to him that they, too, could cross his path. Would he even recognize them now, almost a hundred and fifty years gone from that time? And did he even want to look in some woman's eyes, a woman who would be far younger than him, and see _Mommy _looking back?

He sighed. He hoped all the people he loved were either at peace or living prosperous lives in the now.

Kenshin was still kneeling before the shrine, completely lost in thought, when someone knocked on the door. He rose, knees cracking, and answered it, and blinked a bit in complete surprise. A familiar teenager stood on the other side; with curious interest, he noted she'd bleached her bangs blond and had put purple stripes in her ebony ringlet curls. He said, with a genuine smile, "Carrie-dono, this is a surprise."

She -- and her mother -- were staying in a hotel a few blocks away. She hunched her shoulders and said, "I'm sorry to bother you, but my Mom and Dad are fighting. Can I stay here a bit?"

"Come in. Do they know you are here?"

"I left a note."

He frowned, knowing they would be worried, and reached for his cell phone on its charger -- he touched it just as it rang on its own. He answered it and Akane's panicked voice said, "Ken-nii! Is Carrie there?"

"Aa. She just walked in the door."

"I'm sorry, Kenshin, she took off ... Souji and I were having a bit of a disagreement. It's nothing serious. Soujiro was on Carrie's case about her behavior. She doesn't know how to act like a proper Japanese girl, and it's getting her some flack from the family. I'm sorry she's bothering you -- I'll come get her!"

"It's quite alright. The distraction is welcome. I was growing maudlin with my thoughts alone here." He could hear Akane's hesitation. He said, reassuringly, "I welcome the company, Heather-dono."

She snorted. "Glad to hear your sense of humor is coming back."

He smiled into the phone. He wasn't feeling very funny, really, but he had resolved that he would _force _himself to be in a better frame of mind. "There us nothing wrong with the name Heather, that there isn't."

"Except that Heather was an _idiot _and I left her behind a long time ago. I suppose that is your point? That children grow up and become useful adults?"

"Some of them take longer than others, but yes, that is my point."

"Ken-nii, I swear ..." she snickered. "Okay, fine. She's all yours. I'd probably kill her if I talked to her now anyway. Just promise to bring her back when she gets on your nerves."

"That is a deal, Akane-dono."

"Kenshin, thank you." Akane said.

"And thank you," he responded, "for coming."

"She's my aunt!" Akane protested the gratitude. "Of course I would come."

Kenshin wasn't fooled. "Your father is making your life hell, is he not?"

"Aa." He could practically see her shoulders slump. Akane had not been back to Japan in thirteen years because her father was remarkably talented at pushing her buttons. "And he's hassling Carrie. I don't mind so much for me, but he's being very cruel to _her_. You missed the dinner, after we arrived. He was critical of her hair, her clothing, her grades ..."

"I'll talk to her," Kenshin promised. He winked at Carrie. "But I think you underestimate how tough your daughter is. She can handle Toshio, I think."

"Thank you. And she can, but it pisses _me _off."

After he hung up he turned to Carrie -- who was standing in the middle of his apartment, arms wrapped around herself and shifting her weight from foot to foot. "My mom's mad, isn't she? I _left a note_."

"They're worried about you," he walked to his refrigerator and opened it. It was nearly empty, but there were a couple of sodas, half a bag of fancy coffee, and some expensive chocolate bars that he'd purchased with Atsuko in mind. He had put the chocolate in the fridge before leaving for Canada because he had turned off the air conditioner in the window. "You may have left a note but anything could have happened to you in a strange city."

"I suppose."

"Would you like a chocolate bar?" he offered her one.

She viewed it suspiciously. "Is it a normal chocolate bar?"

Kenshin snickered. He couldn't help it. He had enough Western friends who got _exactly _that look on their face when offered a Japanese snack.

She elaborated, "Because my cousins gave me these things that I thought were candy and they were kinda ... fishy. I think I can still taste the fish and that was this morning."

"Oro! Your cousins are mean, that they are," Kenshin said, "and the chocolate is fine. It's Belgian."

"Okay," she accepted the chocolate bar. He handed her a Coke, too, and then led the way to the balcony.

"So what do you think of Japan?" he asked.

She hunched her shoulders. "Mom says we can't go out and see anything because of the funeral. We're supposed to be in mourning."

Kenshin fought the urge to say something rude. Carrie had barely known Atsuko; bringing a thirteen year old girl all the way to Japan and then not even showing her the sights was cruel and unusual punishment. Granted that Akane was hurting, but she could at least send Soujiro out with her. Carrie ought to be able to visit at least a few sights.

She nibbled at the chocolate, then mimed rolling her eyes back in her head and collapsed into his desk chair. "This is amazing. I am in heaven."

Kenshin smiled, watching her. At the moment, the resemblance to Kaoru was very slight; she did, however, remind him a great deal of any number of the teenage girls he'd known over the last century and a half. He really, truly, and genuinely liked kids. And for all that Carrie had the manners of an American barbarian, she was a good kid.

She sobered, suddenly, and sat up, and said, "I'm not being rude, am I? You lost your wife and I'm imposing, aren't I?"

"Not at all." Kenshin sat down on the floor and wrapped his fingers around one knee. He looked up at her and said, after a moment's careful thought, "I miss Atsuko, Carrie. I hurt, when I think of her. I'll _always _miss her. But I must go on with my life."

"Oh." She hesitated, chewing on her lip and regarding him uncertainly. "We should be friends, then. Because I won't grow old and die on you."

He gave her a startled look. Her proclamation was guileless, however, and totally innocent. He smiled at her in happy agreement. "Yes. We'll be friends. I'm sure of that."

"Of course, the first thing we need to do is work on your fashion sense if we're going to be friends." Now her tone was utterly innocent -- too innocent.

"Oro?"

"Your hair. It's awful. Why did you cut it? It looked so much better long!" Then her eyes softened. "Oh! Was it some sort of mourning thing? If it was, I'm so sorry ... Mom doesn't talk about Japan much and Dad -- well, he's Dad. Much as I love him he's not exactly a fountain of knowledge on anything cultural."

"No worries, Carrie-dono. It's not a funeral tradition. Well -- it can be, but I would not have cut my hair off for that. In the airplane crash, there was a fire. My hair was burnt."

"Oh." She blinked at him. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"I agree. It's better long." He eyed her unusual hair style for a moment then added, slyly, "Hair does grow out eventually, if you have a funny style that doesn't meet the approval of your family, that it does."

She reached up and touched her bangs. "My mom let me do this," she said defensively. "I don't know why. She never let me have wild hairstyles before."

Kenshin suggested gently, "You might want to dye it back before the service tomorrow -- I don't care, but some of the family will comment and they might think you rude. Or you can endure the comments. Your choice, as I personally am not one to speak about unusual hair colors -- believe it or not, it is occasionally suggested to this one that he dye his hair black so that he would better conform to a Japanese appearance. As for your mother ... ask yourself this, just how annoyed was Toshio?"

"My grandfather? Very." Her eyes suddenly widened. "You think my mom let me do this to my hair because my grandfather would disapprove? But she warned me he would be mad!"

Kenshin just smiled. Fondly. The fondness was of both of them; Akane knew her daughter well enough to understand that she would be only ticked off and not deeply hurt by anything Toshio might say. She had also likely predicted Toshio's reaction in advance, and allowing her daughter to bleach and dye her hair had been a very clear statement to Toshio about where _she _stood.

"Do people really tell you to dye your hair?" Carrie asked, suddenly.

"Aa. Sometimes."

"That's stupid. Your hair's beautiful!" Then she blushed. "I mean, umm ..."

"Thank you," he said, serenely. "I agree."

She giggled and blushed harder.

Under other circumstances, he probably would have teased her a good bit more, but his heart just wasn't in it -- not yet. It felt wrong to laugh when Atsuko was so recently gone from his life. Still, the crushing grief had lessened a bit. And a good part of him was looking forward to finding ways to make Carrie laugh like that in the future, for no other reason than the fact that hearing her giggles made him happy.

----------------

It was late.

He had walked Carrie back to her hotel room, marveling at the _life _in the girl. Just being in her presence reminded him of what it was like to be alive, and young, and innocent.

He stood on his apartment's tiny balcony, wrists resting on the railing, staring out at the city lights. His mind was a blank; he was exhausted and yet unable to sleep.

__

Atsuko, he thought, _I wish you were here._

Cool air swirled around his shoulders as if in response to his wish. The night was warm and still; his skin prickled in response to a sense of _other_. He, who could read the ki of an enemy swordsmen like others read the expression on a man's face, had never had a problem in sensing the presence of spirits. He said, "Hello, Atsuko."

If he looked straight ahead he could imagine she was standing beside him, posture nearly identical to his, arms on the railing. In a minute, she would ask him what was on his mind, and he would tell her. Except that she was dead, and her spirit -- he was certain she was with him -- could only stand there and listen. She might be with him, but the absence of her laughter, her personality, and her surprisingly wise advice was a terrible void.

"I miss you," was all he said.

He had poured his heart out to her two nights before. To talk again would be repeating himself. And there wasn't much he could think to tell her now about his mood that couldn't be summed up by those three words.

After a long moment the presence eased. As she departed, however, she _patted _him -- right on one butt cheek with an ephemeral gust of energy and wind. He nearly bit his tongue.

The surge of raw desire startled him -- because for the last thirteen years, he would have responded to such a gesture by playfully groping her back and they almost certainly would have ended up making love.

It felt sacrilegious to miss the physical aspect of their relationship so very much, but he did. He desperately wanted to sink himself into Atsuko, to lose himself in passion in her arms. He wanted to thrust into her, to hear her groan and cry out beneath him; he wanted the release, and he desperately missed the pride that came with bringing _her _to the point of a sobbing orgasm. He missed the connection, the desire, the intimacy, and the _partnership _that had characterized their lovemaking.

His apartment was completely empty now. It was two AM in the morning and he was alone. He contemplated his folded up futon, then simply sat down with his back to the cabinet of DVDs, arms folded, one knee tucked to his chest. He stared out the window until sleep claimed him.

He dreamed. Of the past. Of the present. Of times yet to come.

He didn't dream about lovemaking. He was sorry for that, when he woke. Because in his dreams, just for a little bit, he could forget she was gone.

-----------------------

In the predawn of the following morning, on the way to the temple, Kenshin was walking to his car in the parking garage below the building when he felt the buzz of two other Immortals. He turned in surprise as Hideo and a stranger exited the elevator.

"Kenshin-san," Hideo said, approaching. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Kenshin said, automatically.

"I am sorry to be rude," Hideo said, "but do you have a moment to spare?"

Hideo, Kenshin was pretty sure, didn't know about Atsuko yet, unless he had seen the notice in the paper -- which was doubtful, as Hideo lived in Kyoto. Though, obviously, he was here now. Maybe he had. He said, "Regretfully, Hideo, this one is on his way to his wife's funeral services."

He was going alone in his car, without the comfort of company -- somehow, he had been excluded when the Sagaras had arranged for various carpools and caravans to the shrine. He didn't think it was any sort of deliberate slight, rather, it was the usual assumption from the families that he could take care of himself. That, and likely they all believed he was riding with someone else. Nobody had actually asked him how he was getting to the funeral.

Hideo rocked back on his heels in shock. "I am very sorry, Kenshin-san. I did not know."

"I know you didn't." Kenshin glanced at his watch. "I have a few minutes, if it is important."

Hideo was clearly nonplussed. He hesitated, then said, "I will make this very brief, then. There's a new Immortal in town. I'm here on business and I sensed him, and saw him across a street. He did not stop to talk to me. I simply wanted to know if you knew anything of him."

__

Probably Souji, he thought. "Did you get a good look at him?"

"Hai. He's a few inches taller than you, looks about thirty, and he appears to be Japanese -- but I've never met him before. He's got a woman with him, and a teenage girl who looks Western. She's bleached her bangs ..."

Kenshin held a hand up. The description was accurate enough. "His name's Soujiro Seta and he's married to Atsuko's niece. The girl is Carrie Seta. They're under my protection."

"_Soujiro_," the strange immortal behind Hideo hissed.

Hideo glanced at him. "Kenshin, this is Ren Ito, my student."

"I am honored to meet you, Ito-san," Kenshin said, automatically. He cast a quick surveying glance over the man; he had already noted that the man had a very aggressive _ki _but now he added the man's stance and build to his assessment. He was athletic and balanced; he would be a decent swordsman. "You know Soujiro?"

"He killed my _wife_."

Kenshin closed his eyes. "Ito-san, your wife was Immortal?"

"_Yes_," the man growled. "I've never seen him, I did not know what he looked like."

"I am sorry for your loss," Kenshin said, quietly. "This one knows that pain. Soujiro no longer hunts, however. He has married, he has a daughter. He is trying to be a good man."

Ren stared at Kenshin for a long, long moment. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.

Hideo opened his mouth as if to chastise his student. Kenshin, who, under the same circumstances likely would have reacted in the exact same manner, held a staying hand up. He said calmly, "Your student cannot win against Soujiro. Make sure that he understands this."

Hideo lifted an eyebrow. "He is that good? Ren is an excellent fighter."

"Soujiro was trained by Shishio Makoto." Kenshin explained. "This one found Soujiro a very difficult opponent. He is very fast and very difficult to read in a fight."

Hideo's other eyebrow joined the first. Well, Hideo knew Kenshin's reputation for being one of the best swordsmen in the world. "I'll have a word with Ren."

"Thank you," Kenshin said. He glanced again at his watch. "I need to go, Hideo-san. I apologize."

"Go," the older Immortal said. There was real sympathy in his eyes. "And I am sorry about your wife."


	20. Chapter 20

Author's Notes I know some of my readers have not read A Life Lived. A brief explanation of George Trevor is that he is Kenji's grandson. Because Immortals cannot have children of their own I had to depart from Kenshin canon with Kenji's backstory. He was an orphaned boy Kenshin and Kaoru adopted, who later proved to be the son of an English noble -- which was also the excuse I used for Kenshin to become more of a global traveler. The Trevors referred to occasionally throughout the story are Kenji's descendents and/or the descendents of his brothers.

----------------

__

You can chose your friends, but not your family, Kenshin thought, with acidic irritation, as he watched the Sagaras wrap things up after the funeral. Hours of chanting, and prayers, and incense, and respects paid, and ceremony, and it was finally all over except for the inevitable bickering.

"I want it!" Tsuki practically stomped her foot at Anako Sagara, who was her cousin. Or possibly a second cousin; Anako's line of the family had ended up in Hokkaido and Kenshin hadn't seen any of them in ten years. The 'spreadsheet' solution to keeping track of family relations was looking more and more like a realistic option. And he was also grateful that the inclusion of some of Atsuko's colleagues and some of the Trevors, Himuras, and Myojins had prompted the families to resort to nametags.

Kenshin winced as Tsuki and Anako continued the argument, wondering what Sano would make of this sort of behavior. The object in question was a tray of fancy pastries that had been brought for and not entirely consumed by the funeral guests. Likely, Kenshin thought, Sano would have solved the problem by claiming everything for himself.

"They should be Kenshin's!"

"Kenshin doesn't need them! And he hates sweets!" Tsuki insisted.

__

It's not that I don't like sweets, Kenshin thought, with resignation of yet another example of someone not actually understanding him, _it's that I'm four foot eleven inches tall in my stocking feet. To avoid ending up four foot eleven inches wide, I'm on a lifelong diet._

Neither woman was aware that he was listening. He stood in the doorway behind them, feeling only tired. The argument over the food was the cap on a long, trying day.

It had started just after he had arrived, when Toshio had provoked Akane to tears. Carrie had come to her mother's defense with viciously angry words. Carrie had not been embarrassed to tell the old man off, but it had infuriated many of the other members of the family and thoroughly humiliated her parents. Carrie had been a target of spiteful gossip for the rest of the day.

Kenshin, unsurprised by her reaction, had found her diatribe to Toshio both amusing and refreshing. It was high time that somebody besides one ancient rurouni tell Toshio where to stick his venom. Carrie's suggestions had been anatomically impossible, but entertaining to listen to.

That had been the high point of the day.

__

Next funeral, Kenshin thought, _I'm just skipping. I can damn well mourn in peace on my own._

"Neither do you," Anako snapped, continuing the argument that he was only paying half attention to.

"They're not for me. They're for Toshio!"

"Tsuki-dono. Anako-dono. Settle down." Kenshin headed for the tray of cookies, picked it up off the table, and walked out of the room with them. Outside, on the shrine ground, there was a pond and in the pond, ducks. He heard them following but didn't say a word to acknowledge their hasty pursuit.

"Kenshin! Kenshin, wait!" Tsuki's voice was desperate and somewhat offended. "I told Toshio I'd save him some cookies!"

He reached the pond and flicked one light, tasty, very expensive cookie to the closest drake. The duck made excited quacking noises and gobbled it down.

"Kenshin, those cost a _fortune_!" Tsuki protested.

"The ducks like them, that they do," he gave her his most innocent, guileless, foolish smile and tossed another cookie into the water. More ducks arrived.

Anako grabbed for the tray. "Kenshin, have you lost your mind!"

Kenshin flipped the tray upwards, sharply, and cookies sprayed in a neat arc into the flock. Mass chaos ensued. Kenshin watched in complete satisfaction as the waterfowl ate the very expensive subject of the argument.

"I can't believe you just did that! Toshio wanted those!" Tsuki said.

"Tell Toshio," Kenshin said with a very polite smile and an equally polite tone of voice, "That this one agrees with Carrie that Toshio is a selfish pig who needs to get his snout out of his ass, that I do."

Tsuki inhaled sharply. Anako goggled at him. Likely she'd only heard the legends and had not expected to hear the family's supernatural protector stoop to such a low comment. Kenshin frankly didn't care; he was at his limit of tolerance for stupid behavior. He handed the decorative tray that the pastries had rested on to Tsuki, and then headed back into the shrine to help with the cleanup.

-------------

Carrie was seated cross legged on the hood of his car. She had a mulishly stubborn expression on her face, and anger in her eyes. She had disappeared during the cleanup, likely in reaction to continued snide comments from some of her cousins to the effect that she was an uncouth American and they would be happy to teach her manners. Kenshin regarded her as he walked up; she met his gaze with an expression that held worlds of irritation. "I _hate _my grandfather."

"I don't hate him," Kenshin told her, "but he is a very trying man. And I just fed some cookies that he wanted to take home to some ducks."

She stared at him.

"That was supposed to be funny."

"Sorry. I'm not in a funny mood." She hunched her shoulders. "My father says I'm grounded for the rest of the summer when I go home. For what I said to my grandfather."

"It was very rude," Kenshin agreed. He joined her on the hood of the car. The metal was hot under his black suit pants, and he was probably getting them dirty, but he didn't care. He shrugged out of his jacket and loosened his tie; it was irritating him. "Maybe you should think before you speak, next time, if you don't want to get into trouble."

Her lips twisted into a smile. "I go back to school in three weeks. We leave in a week. That's two weeks of being grounded for telling that self-serving pompous asshole that he's a self-serving pompous asshole. It's worth it."

"Okay, then. As long as you're willing to pay the price." He thought she'd gotten off light -- when he had been a father, over a century ago, he'd have added enough chores to keep her busy for a couple of months to the punishment. Her behavior had been remarkably disgraceful; Akane had been mortified. On the other hand, Akane's opinion of her father wasn't much higher than Carrie's. Maybe Akane had been somewhat sympathetic to Carrie's reaction.

"Hnnh."

"They're having some sort of dinner for the adults later. I'm supposed to go hang out with the other teens but they _hate _me. You should hear some of the things they've said to me after I told my grandfather off."

Kenshin could believe it. The kids would have closed ranks against Carrie, the outsider, the Westerner, the moment she had proved herself to be so unmannered. He sighed, thinking of that. He really wasn't looking forward to the dinner reception at a local restaurant. It would involve large amounts of alcohol -- which meant he'd end up far more drunk in public than he cared to be -- plus socializing with people he didn't particularly care for, and, likely, badmouthing of Carrie.

"I have a better suggestion. There's a couple people I'd _like _to introduce you to, that I would." He fished into the pocket of his suit coat and found his cell phone. "If you don't mind hanging out with a couple of old fogies."

She grinned, suddenly. "As long as you're one of them."

Soujiro answered on the first ring. He sounded somewhat panicked, which was unusual for Soujiro. "Kenshin! Have you seen Carrie? She disappeared again!"

"She's fine. She's with me. I was just calling to let you know that."

"... oh. Good."

"I think she's had enough of the family. I'm going to take a couple people out for dinner and skip the reception at the restaurant. Do you mind if she tags along?"

Soujiro hesitated, "She's supposed to be punished. And they're not going to like you ditching things."

Kenshin said, "Aa. She said you were grounding her when you get home. But Souji-san, when will she be back in Japan? And Ikuko and George Trevor are both over eighty years old and in failing health."

Soujiro was silent for a moment, then said, "I suppose I do not see the harm in it."

-----------

Ikuko Yushida seemed to shrink every time he saw her. She was shorter than he was now, by a couple of inches; even as a young woman she'd never reached five feet. Misao's influence was strong. Still, she was easy to spot, or rather sense. Like her grandmother, Ukiko was hyperactive and enthusiastic and she had a presencehe could feel a mile away.

She was feeding the ducks.

"C'mere duckies! Duckies! C'mere!"

The old women threw a pinch of cake at the waterfowl.

"Aren't you lovely duckies!"

"Ikuko-dono," Kenshin said, warmly, from behind her, "I am so glad you came."

She spun about, amazingly spry for a woman in her eighties. "Ken-nii! Oh, good, I wanted to talk to you before I left."

He grasped her hand -- had they not been in public, he would have hugged her. He had seen her earlier, but had not been able to talk to her.

"You look tired," she said, critically.

"Aa." He agreed.

"Still carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, no doubt. That'd wear even a God out, nevermind a man," she scolded.

He smiled an honest smile and then he did hold his arms open and hug her, because Ikuko Yushida was one of the very few people he called _friend_ and he had just remembered how much he liked her. She was the youngest daughter of Misao's youngest daughter; she was one of the last people with a living memory of Misao and Aoshi, and more importantly, she was someone who he liked, respected, and called _family_.

She hugged him back, arms surprisingly strong. As he was pulling back, too, Kenshin sensed someone coming up behind him. He turned in time to see an older Western man approaching: stooped with age, face lined with wrinkles and age spots, and still tall despite his stooped shoulders. He walked with a cane and his hands shook with a palsy; he was thinner than Kenshin remembered from their last meeting several years before. Kenshin had _not _seen George Trevor at the ceremony and he would have been hard to miss.

"Great-Grandfather," the man breathed. "My flight was delayed, I'm so sorry."

"I saw that it was delayed online this morning, and you called to say you would be late -- it is enough that you are here, Georgie-kun," Kenshin said, as the old man swept him into a hug. At over eighty years of age, George Trevor was still _Georgie-kun _to Kenshin. He didn't hesitate away from this embrace; this man was his son's grandson. Kenshin had known him as a babe in diapers, a toddler with a shocking crown of red curls, as a schoolboy who had loved art as much as Kenji had, as a teenager who had wanted to be a doctor. He had reminded Kenshin often not of Kenji but of Byron with his gentle ways.

Too, Kenshin remembered George's anguish after going to war -- he had been in his late teens during the second World War, and old enough to fight. A gentle man, and one raised in a family that had strong ties to Asia, he had come back silent, drawn, and changed from years of fighting in the Pacific. Too, he had come back unwilling to speak Japanese -- he had known it as a child, but he had, Kenshin thought, forced himself to forget after the war.

Because he had spoken Japanese he had been sent to the Pacific to interrogate prisoners. That was all that Kenshin knew; he could imagine the rest. George never wanted to speak Japanese again. George had somehow managed to actually _forget _the language.

It had been then, in those terrible years after World War Two, that Kenshin had really gotten to know him. He, too, knew the guilt, the pain, and the nightmares that came from war. Even now, every few years, Kenshin would get the odd phone call that started, "Grandpapa, I had a bad dream, I need to talk ..."

"I'm sorry about Atsuko," George said. He tightened his grip on Kenshin, and his voice broke when he repeated, "I'm so sorry."

Sending Atsuko to George in the 1960's, Kenshin thought, had been one of his more inspired moments. George had a daughter close to the same age, and Atsuko had wanted to go to college but had been struggling with fitting in within the confines of her own culture.

George had been struggling then too -- alcoholic, guilt ridden, and Kenshin had thought, near suicidal. Kenshin had paid for Atsuko to go to college in England, where her brash personality and rebellious attitude had fit neatly into hippy culture. She had probably done a few more substances than Kenshin would have preferred in those years, but she had also come into her own.

George had taken her in; had found, Kenshin thought, a measure of healing in becoming the sponsor, guardian, and surrogate father of a troubled young Japanese girl who was the same age as his own daughter. It had worked, as Kenshin had hoped it would.

Kenshin finally stepped back and gestured at Ikuko. "Georgie-kun, this is IkukoYushida, Misao's granddaughter. You've heard me speak of Misao." He turned to Ikuko. "Ikuko-dono, this is Lord George Trevor, my great-grandson."

Ikuko held out her hand and said in accented but clear English, "I am pleased to meet you, Lord Trevor."

"You speak English!" He beamed in relief.

"Hai. I married a Western man." She grinned, baring perfectly white dentures. She added, more soberly, "I'm a widow now."

George looked vaguely ... frightened. Kenshin managed not to snicker, but only barely. This was going to be entertaining.

"This one," Kenshin said, "suggests that we go to dinner together, and also take Carrie Seta with us."

"The girl with the adorable bangs?" Ikuko cackled. "I like her. She has courage, that one."

"I thought you might," Kenshin said, with a grin back at her. Ikuko was so much Misao's granddaughter that it was nearly frightening.

"Bangs?" George queried.

"She's American. My wife's niece." Kenshin reached a hand up, planning to tug at his own bangs, forgetting that his hair was cut painfully short. He ended up waving his hand around in front of his forehead. "She bleached her hair, but just the bangs. And put purple stripes in the rest of her hair."

"Ah. She's young, I take it." George smiled..

"Very."

"Ah, well, hair grows out," George echoed Kenshin's own sentiments on the matter.

"She told Toshio off," Ikuko said, sounding very impressed. "She has courage, that one, but not much common sense."

-------------------

Kenshin had chosen a small neighborhood noodle shop for dinner. As he had expected, Carrie and Ikuko were a good combination.

"You _really _went to Africa in the seventies?" Carrie's eyes were round, as if she was having a hard time picturing this frail old woman doing anything exciting.

"Hai. My husband worked for an oil company. We traveled all over the world." Ikuko slurped up a mouthful of noodles. "When you marry, little one, find a husband who has a sense of adventure. It makes for an interesting and rewarding life."

Carrie's smile turned to a frown. "I don't think I'll ever marry."

"Wise child," George said, unaware that this was anything but teenage angst about obnoxious boys.

Kenshin glanced at Carrie in concern. She met his eyes. He thought, _Marshall_. Reason enough for a girl to be wary of romance. He still didn't know exactly what Marshall had done with her. Marshall hadn't "forced" her, she had said, but what had he done to try to "convince" her?

Well, if she wanted to talk, he'd listen. But he wasn't going to pry.

Ikuko snickered. "Oh, you'll find someone. Girl like you? You'll have the boys falling at your feet. Pick the best of the lot. If you want any advice, call me."

Carrie shook her head, but said nothing.

Kenshin decided to steer the conversation to different subjects. Carrie was obviously very uncomfortable about the subject of _boys._ "Georgie-kun, how is your daughter?"

"She had to stay home because her daughter -- my granddaughter -- is having a baby any day now," George said. "It's her first."

Kenshin's eyes lit up. "Really? I had not heard."

George's granddaughter was in her mid thirties -- that seemed late, for a first child, but Kenshin reminded himself it was not unusual in this modern era. In his time it would not be impossible for a woman to be a grandmother by her mid to late thirties. He made a mental note to visit England in the near future; there were several people he wanted to see and she was one of them.

"I'm going to be a great-grandfather," George said, sounding awed.

Kenshin counted in his head, and came up with, "Great-great-great-great grandfather."

"And with all those friends and family he buys New Years cards by the pallet load," Ikuko teased. "And the post office makes a special delivery to his apartment of all the cards sent to him."

"It's true," Kenshin confirmed, ruefully. He suspected the post office thought he was some sort of celebrity, by the volume of mail he got at that time of year. "Atsuko claims ... claimed ... that we should start addressing them in July of this year so we could get them all done in time."

Ikuko snickered. "I'm going to miss that woman, Ken-nii. She had an evil sense of humor and always made me laugh."

"Aaa. Me too."

"Remember the time," George said, "that she gave you the brownies, Kenshin?"

"Oro." Kenshin dropped his forehead onto his arms next to his bowl of noodles.

"Brownies?" Carrie said, baffled, completely missing the cultural reference.

"You are not telling Carrie that story, Georgie-kun," Kenshin protested, voice muffled by his folded arms.

"_Special _brownies?" Carrie squeaked, belatedly getting it.

He looked up at her. Carrie and Ikuko _both _snickered at his expression. George, with relish, explained, "She couldn't get Kenshin to try a joint so she gave him, as you said, _special_, brownies. Kenshin, stoned, is bloody funny."

Kenshin glared. "This one does _not _approve of marijuana."

"I know, I know," George said, "and neither do I, but it was _funny_."

"I had never heard this story," Ikuko said, with interest.

"I didn't speak to Atsuko for a month after that," Kenshin said. He could laugh now, but he had been angry and offended at the time. Fortunately, Kenshin thought, Atsuko had grown up, grown a brain, and had grown out of her interest in weed. And times had changed; such things had become less permissible.

Ikuko said, "Carrie, you know that she once put pudding in Toshio's shoes?"

"My grandfather?" Carrie squeaked, eyes wide.

Kenshin could tell this store with relish. "I had taken Atsuko and Tsuki and Toshio to Kyoto to visit Ikuko's family -- Tsuki and Toshio were just dating then. Toshio was rude to her, so Atsuko put chocolate pudding in the toes of his shoes."

"Toshio," Ikuko said, "was absolutely furious. It was fantastic."

More Atsuko stories followed, including a number from George that Kenshin had never heard before.

"You know she met the Paul McCartney once?" George said.

"Really?" Ikuko said, sounding impressed. "I hadn't heard that."

"Who's Paul McCartney?" Carrie asked, sounding a lot less impressed.

Kenshin choked down an incredulous laugh. It was easy to forget that Carrie was so very young, and not, apparently, a music otaku either. "I am now reminded that time moves on."

"I thought he was _so kawaii_," Ikuko said, in a high, squeaky, little-girl voice, hands clutched together over her chest, eyelashes fluttering dramatically.

George snorted. "Disgraceful music."

"Right, old man," Kenshin said, "you borrowed my records and never gave them _back_, as I recall. You just wouldn't admit you liked the music to your daughter."

"Pffaw. I took the records because you kept playing them over and over and they were irritating me. Anyway, she met Paul McCartney and asked to take his photograph," George said, "it was at some concert in a park before he was really hip. She wanted to _take his photograph_ and he thought she meant _with him. _So he grabs her camera and hands it off to a groupy and poses with her."

George grinned. "She was _pissed_. She was trying to get him to pose for her. She vented for days."

"Oh, yeah. I've heard of him, I guess," Carrie finally said.

All three adults looked at her. Kenshin said, "You're getting CDs for your birthday, child."

Carrie stuck her tongue out at him. "I'm not a child."

"You just made me feel ancient. Therefore, you are a child." Kenshin stuck his tongue out at her right back, causing Ikuko to snicker and George to slap his leg and laugh.

Carrie pouted. "You're being mean to me."

"Oh, he's terrible," Ikuko agreed. "Kenshin, remember the time that you convinced Atsuko that butterflies made butter the same way bees made honey and if she caught enough she could start a butter farm?"

"She was _four_," Kenshin said, rolling his eyes.

"I'm particularly impressed because that pun does not work in Japanese," George pointed out.

"Oh. Yes. She was incurably curious about language," Kenshin said, remembering how intense Atsuko had been even as a small child. "it was teaching her the word _butterfly _in English and then translating the literal meaning that led to it. She wanted to know why they were called _butter flies _and I got creative in my explanation."

"Boy was she mad when she found out the truth!" Ikuko said, giggling girlishly. "She called you all sorts of names that little girls are not supposed to know. Her mother was _mortified_."

Kenshin fished in his pocket, found his wallet, and flipped to a photograph, which he showed the others. It was of a four year old Atsuko, hands on her hips, lip hanging out and eyes narrowed in a ferociously dark scowl. "Yes. I took her photograph."

"Didn't you also promise to give that photograph to her first boyfriend?" Ikuko said, snickering at the memory.

"Oh, yes, and that I did." Kenshin nodded happily. "She made a face very similar at sixteen as she did at four!"

Hours later, Kenshin was in a much better mood than he'd been in a long time. George and Ikuko had been good for his soul; he had made promises to visit both of them in the next several months. He dropped George and Ikuko off at their hotels, agreed to meet George for breakfast, and to take Ikuko to the train station later, and then parked in his space in the his tower's garage and said to Carrie, "Your hotel's so close, we'll walk."

It was late; past ten at night and he'd been awake since the predawn hours. Yawning a bit he called Soujiro, who sounded thoroughly drunk when he answered, "Yeaaah, Kenshin?"

__

Glad I missed that reception, Kenshin thought. _Either it was very wild or Soujiro got drunk in response to a very awful party. Either way, I am much happier to have ditched it and met with Ikuko and George instead. _"I'm heading back. Do you want me to stay with Carrie until you're done?"

"Nah. I'm just leaving, my friend."

__

Definitely _inebriated_, Kenshin thought. Soujiro was _not _normally the type to call anyone 'my friend'. Well, he could picture the scene at the dinner well enough, and it was why he'd avoided it -- the rest of the family would have filled his glass the moment it was even partly empty, and good manners would dictate that he drink. They would have thought getting thoroughly wasted was a good way to drown his sorrows.

He'd done that already. It hadn't helped his mood much, except that he'd probably ended up a better friend of Mac in exchange for a whopping bad hangover later.

However, as an Immortal, he had a very strong preference for not getting blasted in public. If he was going to drink himself into a stupor he at least had the smarts to do so in a private, secure location and only around people he trusted.

Well, Soujiro wasn't that pickled, judging by the relative clarity of his words, so he likely either had a strong native resistance to booze or he had, at some point, been rude enough to say _enough_.

Carrie walked beside Kenshin as they headed for the hotel. She had her hands in her pockets and she was unusually quiet. Kenshin said, after a moment, "Something on your mind?"

"I was just thinking it isn't fair that people have to die." Carrie hunched her shoulders. "If I was making the rules, everyone would be Immortal."

"Mortals have bodies which grow old and age and fail them," Kenshin said, after a moment. "But souls are immortal. People don't end when they die. They either go to a better place or they are reborn to live again."

"Have you ever met anyone you knew before?" Her question was innocent, simple curiosity prompted it.

"Aa. I have."

"Did they know you?"

"No. Not really. Perhaps an impression of familiarity, but nothing more."

"How strange that must be."

"Indeed, it is." Kenshin glanced at her, at the bright blue eyes that studied him with calm interest. "It is eerie, to see the soul of a friend looking out the eyes of someone who does not know you."

"Do you think Atsuko will ever return to you, or Kaoru?" She was encouraged, perhaps, by his thoughtful responses to her questions. "Or Tomoe?"

He wondered how she had known Tomoe's name; he seldom spoke of her. And unlike Kaoru, whose name and photographs were a solid part of family history, not even one picture existed of Tomoe. Then he remembered this was Carrie, who asked plain and direct questions when she was curious. Likely she had asked someone who knew, and someone had given her an answer. It didn't really matter who.

He exhaled sharply. Her words had been unexpected. He knew he was treading on dangerous ground and yet, somehow, it was difficult for him not to answer her. After a moment's thought he said, "Even if they were to return to my life, I am not certain that they are here for romance. A reincarnation of a soul is not a carbon copy of the same person. They have their own life to live and their own destiny. They do not even look the same, necessarily."

"Still, it must be tempting to think you could find one of them someday ..."

"My wife just died," Kenshin said, calmly, and with perfect truth. "I'm honestly not even considering the subject."

"Oh. Sorry. Sometimes my mouth leads my brain." She hunched again, "I'm very sorry, Kenshin. I wasn't thinking. I didn't mean to bring up things that hurt you."

"It's already forgiven." After a moment, he added, "Your birthday is in September, isn't it?"

"Yeah." She made a face. "Right after I start fucking school."

"You don't like school, do you?" He ignored the obscenity.

"Feh. No. I don't fit in." She didn't elaborate, but he could imagine multiple ways and reasons why she would be an outsider.

"What do you want?"

He expected material things, but she surprised him by saying, "Not much. You promised me Pippi doujinshi. And the music CDs you mentioned. That's more than enough, Ken-nii."

"Anything else you want?"

"A pony."

He laughed. "You'll have to ask your parents for that one. I don't do pets."

"Awwwww ..." she whined.

"Where would you keep it?"

"In my closet," she answered, promptly. "I'd feed it lots of carrots to keep it quiet."

"I'll see what I can do," he said, thinking, _stuffed animal. Definitely. _"So what classes are you taking in High School?"

"Biology," she made a face, "and chemistry. And Spanish. I wanted to take Japanese, but my dad says I already speak it and he wants me to learn more languages."

"He's wise. You'll use the Spanish in California, and learning foreign languages is easier when you're young. It will make you more employable."

She continued her litany, "And calculus. I hate calculus. And English. And shop, for an elective."

"Shop?" his eyebrows rose.

"Dad again. He says I need to learn to be self-sufficient. That knowing how things work may save my life someday. Because of what I am. An Immortal, y'know," she sighed. "He refuses to let me be a girly-girl."

"And you are complaining about this?"

She grinned. "True, I'm so not a girly-girl. However, sometimes I think he'd be a lot happier if I had been born a boy. And after the whole fucking mess with fucking Marshall, he's twice as paranoid about me being a girl. Dad was actually talking about taking me _out _of school and homeschooling me."

"You didn't want that?"

"I hate school," she said, dryly, "but it is seven hours a day when I'm free of my parents."

Kenshin smiled at that explanation and reflected that, at her age, it had just been him and Hiko on the mountain. Alone. Together. Just the two of them. It had been ugly at times.

They rounded a corner and Kenshin felt it: the buzz of two Immortals, coming from a parking garage next to her hotel. Kenshin swore under his breath, because he could feel hostile aggression mixed in with the ki of one.

"What?" she said, alarmed.

He dropped his hand to his sakabatou. "Go back to your hotel room. _Stay _there until I or Souji or your mother comes for you."

"It's another Immortal?"

He snarled at her, "Go! Don't argue with me, Carrie-dono!"

Then he spun and ran towards the buzz. If he didn't stop the nearly inevitable fight someone would die. And Soujiro was drunk enough that Kenshin was worried.

The rules of 'The Game' dictated that he couldn't interfere. However, it would not be the first time that Kenshin had directly interceded in a fight. He didn't believe in 'The Game' for a multitude of reasons and he saw no reason why he had to play by the rules of something he found so repugnant.

Kenshin scrambled up the stairs to the third floor of the parking garage. From that point, the ring of steel on steel led him to a fight in progress. Akane was there, hands over her mouth, eyes enormous in her face. She was crying; Kenshin could see that her cheeks were wet from thirty feet away.

Soujiro was very drunk. Moreso than he had sounded.

Kenshin could tell by the way Souji was moving -- he was slow, awkward, his timing was off and his sword strokes too broad and clumsy. And Ren Ito was a lot better than Kenshin had expected. He was sober, and he was skilled. He also wore an long, heavy coat that Kenshin suspected had kevlar concealed in the lining.

How many brilliant swordsmen had come to such an ignominious fate in the history of the world? Kenshin wondered. Felled not by someone of greater skill, but simply because they'd been drunk at the wrong moment.

Soujiro was bleeding heavily. Kenshin couldn't sense a bit of emotion from him; Soujiro was fighting without feelings, without anger or fear or hate. He should have been a difficult opponent, except that he could not defeat biology and his coordination was trashed to hell by the booze in his system.

"No! Don't do this!" Kenshin shouted, at Ren, trying to appeal to the man -- who did not feel like an evil man, just an angry one. "You can't kill him! He has a wife, a daughter!"

"Stay out of this, Himura," Soujiro growled.

"Souji!" Akane wailed. She didn't sound nearly as drunk as Soujiro. "Souji!"

Kenshin hesitated. There was still a decent chance that Soujiro would win; the drink simply leveled the playing field. But then Soujiro glanced in his direction, perhaps to verify he was staying out of the fight. Sober, Soujiro never would have needed to look -- Soujiro was at least as good at reading _ki _as Kenshin was.

Ren fouled Soujiro's blade in that instant and sent it skittering across the concrete. It disappeared under a car. Kenshin's heart caught in his throat as Ren instantly followed through with a lightning quick thrust to Soujiro's chest. Soujiro went down in a gout of blood, limp as a ragdoll. _Dead_, Kenshin knew; Ren's blade had pierced his heart.

"No!" Kenshin denied, even as he reached for his own blade. He was too far away to reach Ren and stop a beheading blow, but acting on pure instinct he whipped his sheathed blade around and let the sakabatou fly free. The blade shot out of the sheath with a _snick_ and hilt first, true as an arrow, it slammed into Ren's head. Ren's head snapped back and he staggered then went down backwards, cracking his head for a second time on the pavement.

The sakabatou had bounced off his skull and now hit the concrete with a loud metallic _spang_. It reverberated with a low hum like a tuning fork. Kenshin winced; that was a good way to break a fine blade. Beside the sentimental value the sakabatou was nigh irreplaceable -- no swordmakers existed today to equal those of his time to make him a new blade if it broke, and there were very few, if any, surviving reversed-blade katanas.

"Thank you," Akane breathed, behind him.

"Daddy!" A breathless scream behind him alerted him to the fact that Carrie had not gone up to the hotel room as he had directed.

__

Why is that not surprising? Kenshin thought, with extreme irritation, not even needing the confirmation of the whisper of her nascent Immortality to identify that voice and presence. Carrie wasn't any better at following orders than Kaoru had been. The last thing he needed was Carrie complicating matters.

"Stay back!" Akane snarled at her daughter. "Let Kenshin deal with it!"

Kenshin snagged his blade up and glanced at it briefly. He didn't see any damage beyond a few minor scratches, and he sheathed it again with a click. Ren was starting to stir. The man reached up, touched his forehead, and winced. "What did you throw at me?"

Kenshin didn't answer his question -- either Ren hadn't seen the blade coming or more likely the blow to his head had addled his recent memory. In either case he saw no reason to enlighten an enemy to one of his more unusual attacks if the enemy couldn't figure it out himself. While resting a hand on the hilt of his sword he said, "This one cannot allow you to kill Soujiro."

Ren staggered to his feet. His eyes were strange; he'd had his bell rung good. It would be a simple thing to remove his head.

Kenshin stayed his hand, though his fingers twitched with reflexes that were not entirely the own. His instincts were screaming at him to take the Quickening now, while he could. He was not a killer, he told himself firmly. He was sworn never to kill ... even if he had recently broken that oath.

"You interfered in a Challenge!" Ren hissed at him, sounding horrified and scandalized. "One on one. That is how we fight. You _cannot _intercede!"

Kenshin said grimly, "This one just did. I cannot allow you to kill Soujiro."

"Your friend there is a _murderer_." Ren shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He had a blooming goose egg over one eye. "He killed my wife! She was in America on business and she never came back. I found out through the Immortal community there that he killed her for _no _reason other than he wanted her head!"

"How long ago was this?" Kenshin asked, drawing Ren into a conversation.

"Fifteen years!"

"He hasn't hunted a head in thirteen." Kenshin was confident of that. Akane would not have put up with it, and Soujiro wouldn't lie to her. Besides, something had changed in Soujiro when he had saved Akane's life. He had gained a degree of empathy that he'd never had before. Kenshin could feel the change in him. "Ito-san," Kenshin said carefully, "Soujiro ..." what, regrets? not likely. "... has changed, Ito-san. If you kill him now you do not kill the man who murdered your wife."

"Bah. Pretty words."

"This one knows that pain," Kenshin said, removing his hand from the hilt of his sword. Gently, soothingly, he said, "You do not have to kill to avenge her, Ren."

"I cannot allow him to walk the earth!"

"I cannot allow you to kill him. For him. And for you. It is _wrong_ to kill."

"You have killed. And yet you call it wrong?" Ren challenged.

"Aa, this one calls it wrong. Ito-san, I have done wrong in this world. I _know _what I speak of because I have done it." Kenshin took a step closer to him. "Your wife loved you, did she not?"

"Yes. And I loved her with _all _my heart. She would want me to avenge her death!":

"Would she want you to leave another woman heartbroken and a daughter without a father?" Kenshin walked closer, hands down by his sides. "If you kill Souji, Akane will be alone to raise their child. _Look _at Carrie. If anyone needs a father like Soujiro, it is one like her who will someday be one like us."

"She knows what she is?"

"Aa, she knows. He's never lied to her about what she is." Kenshin glanced at Carrie, whose eyes were brimming with terrified tears. Her father was still unmoving, motionless in a pool of blood. "Or about what he is. In Carrie, and Akane, he finds atonement, I think." _In some flavor of atonement. I'm not sure Soujiro thinks along those lines, but it's certainly there, just subconscious, _Kenshin thought.

"He loves her?"

"He loves both of them," Kenshin said, soothingly.

The man's _ki _changed. Kenshin had half a heartbeat to react as he pulled, not a sword but a _gun_, from inside his long coat. Kenshin tracked the man's gaze not to Soujiro or to himself but to Akane. _Shit he wants to make Soujiro hurt like he does ... _Kenshin _lunged, _leaping airborne and catching the bullet with his own chest.

The impact was like being kicked in the chest by a horse. _Large caliber weapon_, Kenshin thought muzzily, and wondered distantly what sort of connections Ren had to get his hands on a gun in Tokyo.

__

Not a fatal wound, he thought, as he slid to a stop against a wall. At least, not immediately fatal. It didn't hurt, exactly, though there was heat and pressure. The bullet had entered his chest high up -- it was suddenly hard to breath and he coughed, tasting blood, but it hadn't been a heart shot. He would heal, and likely before he bled out or suffocated.

__

More lead to set off the metal detectors in airports, Kenshin thought, irreverently, as he lunged back into the fight. Ren was already lowering the gun at Akane again. Akane was leaping for cover -- _good girl! _he thought -- and Kenshin didn't hesitate, he just threw himself at Ren.

He'd dropped the sakabatou and he had no idea where it was. However, he was quite angry enough to behead Ren with his bare hands. Challenging Soujiro had been one thing. But Ren had attacked _Akane_ who was no party to the Soujiro's past crimes.

The gun barked again, but the bullet missed him. Ren was probably not used to shooting at a moving target that was as fast as Kenshin was.

From behind Kenshin, as he tackled Ren, he heard a grunt. Akane screamed, but it wasn't Akane who had been shot.

Kenshin saw _red_. He disarmed Ren by the simple expedient of dislocating his elbow; a twist and a bit of a leverage and the arm went _pop_. Ren howled. Kenshin caught the gun as Ren dropped it, held it by the barrel, and slammed it into the side of Ren's head. He staggered backwards, and Kenshin grabbed his sword off the ground as Ren was recovering.

__

He will come for Soujiro again and Carrie and Akane will be in the way.

That was the only thought in Kenshin's head. Ren's stunned eyes met Kenshin's and then Kenshin struck, sword whistling in a flat arc, blade reversed. Ren's head hit the ground, eyes still stunned and wide, at Kenshin's feet. _Thump._ The goose egg that the hilt of Kenshin's sword had left above his eye was a bright red mark against the head's suddenly pale skin.

The body, twitching, toppled backwards. _Thump._

Kenshin turned around, looking for Carrie. As he had known, she was shot -- she had her fingers covering a hole in her gut, and blood trickled between her fingers. _Horror _struck him ... visceral, memorable, knowledgeable on gut wounds. He had seen people die of a bullet to the stomach before. It was not a pleasant death.

__

She is Immortal.

__

She is too young!

The Quickening rose, searing energy, wild and intense. It raced among the cars, exploding head lights, causing alarms to honk and air bags to deploy. It seared through his nerves with ferocious electrical pain.

He saw the life of the man he had killed flash before his eyes. He had been a hard man, arrogant and temperamental, quick to judge ... and he had loved a woman and Soujiro had had killed her.

Not a nice man, but he had not deserved to die. He had been flawed but very human, and not evil.

Kenshin realized this in a moment of crystal clarity. Had he tried harder, been more persistent, more creative, _better _than Ren ... he could have reached him. Instead, he had killed him in a fit of impatient and angry fear.

Images of a lifetime flashed before his eyes. Laughter, as a boy -- not too long ago, because Ren had been young; he had been a child in the seventies. Young love, puppy love, with various girls, then a mature love as he found an Immortal woman far older than him who had tempered his aggression with patience and wisdom. Had the woman lived, Ren would have been a good man.

When she died, he had had been broken.

Hideo had found him then. Hideo had seen potential in him. Kenshin saw flashes of Hideo talking to Ren, teaching Ren about both swords and _life_. Hideo had called him _deshi_, apprentice. Kenshin saw a flash of memory: Hideo cuffing Ren up side the head, affectionately, and calling him _baka deshi_.

Kenshin stumbled to his feet.

More memories that were not his own: waiting by a phone for an overdue call from a wife. Fearing the call would never come. And when the call never came, waiting at the airport for a plane to arrive. And when the plane arrived, waiting, watching, the throngs of people disembarking. Ren's wife had not been on the plane. He'd never found her body; Soujiro had disposed of it well. But later he had heard rumors from the San Francisco Immortal community of who had been behind her demise.

Carrie stared at him with fear in her eyes. Akane, hand clapped over her daughter's wound.

Numbly, Kenshin said, "Call an ambulance. She can't die yet."

Akane stared at him.

"Call an ambulance!" His voice cracked like a whip.

Akane scrambled for her cell phone.

"Kenshin," Carrie said, voice thick with pain. "Kenshin, don't go ..."

But he was already turning to leave. More memories of the man he had killed surged through his mind. He had liked baseball and anime; he had been dating a mortal woman occasionally and had thought something might happen there.

Ren had loved Hideo like a father. Kenshin suspected that Hideo reciprocated the feeling.

Carrie called after him, through wheezing gasps of pain, "Don't forget ... my ... birthday ..."

He knew what she meant. _Don't leave forever._

He ignored that. He couldn't bring himself to answer. Instead, he scooped his sakabatou off the ground and fled. And he felt like a coward as he did so, but he couldn't bring himself to stay.

And he didn't even want to think how Akane would explain the scene to the police when they arrived.


	21. Chapter 21

--------------

Soujiro was seated beside the hospital bed, arms folded, head bowed. "Ken-nii," he said, without looking up. It had been the first time that Soujiro had ever called Kenshin _'Ken-nii' _though half the rest of the world did.

Kenshin stood hesitantly in the doorway. Carrie was asleep, or drugged, or both. She had a tube down her throat and IVs taped to her arms, and she was alive and she didn't have the buzz of an Immortal about her. He exhaled a breath he hadn't known he had been holding.

"How is she?"

"She'll survive." Soujiro finally looked up. There were dark circles under his eyes. "Akane told me what you did. She's asleep -- the doctors gave her a sedative. She was pretty upset about the whole thing. I've managed to keep the realities of what we are from Akane, until now."

Kenshin didn't know what to say to that.

"Thank you, by the way. For saving her."

"Do you know why he was coming for your head?" Kenshin asked. It was important that Soujiro know, and understand, that this tragedy was caused by his past actions. He hoped it would cause Soujiro to hesitate in the future; Soujiro wasn't hunting now, but Kenshin didn't know what Souji would do in the future.

"I didn't kill his wife." Soujiro shook his head, denying it. "I killed a lot of men but I've rarely killed women."

"Rarely?" Kenshin prompted.

"The last one was in the 1980's. She came after me, I wasn't hunting her." Soujiro sighed and stretched his legs out. "Hideo was here earlier -- he said Ren's wife died in 1992. Hideo wants you to know that he's not after my head -- or yours -- and that Ren was an idiot for Challenging me. He said, and I quote, that it was Darwinian Principle at work. He apparently strongly cautioned Ren against this."

Kenshin flinched again. "Soujiro-san, we need to talk."

"So talk."

"Away from ... her."

"She's out cold," Soujiro said. "Carrie's got enough morphine in her system right now to trank an elephant. Before she passed out earlier, she was telling me that there were spiders on the ceiling and they were playing golf with a Wii. We can safely talk in front of her, I think."

Kenshin smiled faintly. "Please, Soujiro-san. I don't feel comfortable discussing this in front of your daughter."

Soujiro nodded slowly. "Very well."

-----------------

Kenshin led the way to the hospital's parking garage, and then up to the rooftop level. Soujiro followed, hands in his pockets, an uncertain smile plastered across his face. Once they were alone, and far from anyone who might overhear, Kenshin said very quietly, "I'm out of control."

"So you're leaving?"

"Something like that." Kenshin looked sharply away from Soujiro. "Soujiro-san, I'm dangerous."

"We all are," Soujiro gave him an uncomfortable look.

"I acted without thought. I reversed my sword and I took Ren's head because he _frightened _me. Souji-san, I could have reached him. I've done it before, with others." Kenshin hung his head, arms folded, shoulders hunched. Soujiro thought he didn't look like Kenshin at all -- Kenshin was a proud, strong man. This person was broken and beaten.

"You don't know that ..." Soujiro said.

"I could have broken his neck and stopped him that way. I've done that before, with other Immortals. And yes, I could have reached him. Soujiro -- I reached _you _and that was a good bit harder than reaching Ren would have been." Kenshin met his eyes and his tone was frankly honest, not teasing. Something terrible filled Kenshin's expression. "He was not a bad man. He wasn't evil. He was angry, and he was hurting, and he believed -- rightly or wrongly -- that you were behind the death of his wife. There was no _evil _in his soul."

"Even so," Soujiro said, "he tried to kill _Akane. _He nearly killed Carrie, and she's just a kid. It's far too soon for her to die. He got nothing less than he deserved."

"Nobody _deserves _to die," Kenshin spat out, "and I, of all people, do not have the right to execute anyone!"

Soujiro frowned. He didn't quite understand why Kenshin was so upset. "Kenshin, nobody is mad at you for what you did. Hideo came by specifically to make sure that we knew he wouldn't be hunting either of us. And he was Ito's sensei. Even he thinks it was justified."

Kenshin looked sharply away. "Soujiro, I know you don't understand but ... this has to stop. When I took Marshall's Quickening something in me died. I am not the man I was. I am ashamed ..." he swallowed hard. "I swore I would protect all those within my sight, all those who I consider friends and family. I think ... I think to protect them, maybe I need ..."

Soujiro's eyes widened as Kenshin suddenly knelt before him, neck exposed, motionless. It was an absolutely vulnerable position and Soujiro knew what he was asking. "Soujiro, I ask you to help me protect those I have sworn ... I cannot trust my own instincts and reactions anymore. The next person I kill may not even be Immortal. It may be someone I care about."

Soujiro's fingers twitched. Kenshin's Quickening would likely be one of the most powerful he could take. Kenshin was young, but he was wildly talented. Soujiro knew full well he would be unstoppable with Kenshin's abilities added to his own.

"No," he said, turning sharply away. He resisted the very real temptation. He was surprised to realize it was his _own _choice, also; it was not because Akane would disapprove. "I won't."

"Soujiro-san, please."

"Find someone else." Soujiro glanced over his shoulder. "I don't want your Quickening. And I don't want you dead. Kenshin, you're wrong. You're not evil."

Kenshin looked up at him. He swallowed, and his adam's apple bobbed. "Soujiro-san, please."

"No." Soujiro said, turning back. "I won't do this. And Ken-nii, I'm going to throw your own words back at you: Nobody deserves to die."

Kenshin rocked backwards, falling onto his butt, as if Soujiro had kicked him. He stared at Soujiro, eyes wide. Then he looked away, and then scrambled to his feet, and said, "... what ... what am I thinking?"

"I think," Soujiro said, "that you're not thinking at _all._"

"I have to stop." Kenshin backed away from Soujiro. "I have to _stop_."

"Do you?" Soujiro challenged. "Maybe you're what you should have been all along. Ken-nii, there is evil in the world. Sometimes, evil is mixed with good -- but for the sake of everyone, the best choice is to eliminate both the good and the evil together. Ren was willing to kill an unarmed woman -- a mother, a wife -- because he wanted to make me hurt like he did. If that's not evil, I don't know what is. Even I, at my worst, have never killed a mortal for _revenge_. I've never killed for revenge."

Kenshin backed another step away. Soujiro continued, mercilessly, "Ren had _no _proof that I killed his wife. He only had the word of others, who _hate _me, and who are willing to lay the blame of every death of every Immortal in San Francisco on my head."

Kenshin shuddered. "He was not ... irredeemable."

"Neither was I, but if you'd killed me in the 1800's there would be a couple hundred people alive because of that." Soujiro folded his arms. "Sometimes you're a fool. A likeable fool, but a fool all the same."

Kenshin sucked a sharp breath in, obviously stung. "That's a false argument, Soujiro-san. You might live a thousand years more and balance the scales out with lives saved and good done. It's your choice how you live your life. I haven't the right to take away that choice from you, and I cannot predict the future."

"Perhaps." Soujiro shrugged, thinking it an overly idealistic argument. "You yourself claim there's no way to atone for those you've killed in the past."

Kenshin looked sharply away again. Soujiro knew he'd scored. Still, Kenshin persisted, "I cannot predict the future for _you_, Soujiro-san, but I am deathly afraid that I _can _predict it for myself. I am ... unable to control myself."

"Bullshit." Soujiro crossed his arms. "_Bullshit_. You _chose _to kill Ren, and you made the right decision, and now you just won't admit it."

Kenshin flinched again like he'd been struck. The eyes that met Soujiro's gaze were full of naked pain. "I do not have the right to make those decisions!"

"Ask yourself this, Kenshin: If a man were to try to kill Akane in front of me, out of spite, and _I _were to take his head off, would you consider it a crime or justice served?"

Unhappily, Kenshin admitted, "I would say that the best course of action would be one where nobody died. But I would not fault you for using lethal force, no."

"Then what is so different about _you_?" Soujiro raked his fingers through his hair. "Sometimes, Kenshin, I just don't understand you. You're holding yourself to a standard far higher than you would for anyone else in the whole world!"

Very quietly, Kenshin said, "With great power comes great responsibility."

"Oh, fuck that. Don't quote pop culture at me, Battousai," Soujiro snapped, genuinely irritated. "I'm as good with a sword as you are, and you _know _it. If you don't believe it I'd be happy to demonstrate. I'm annoyed enough at you at this moment to have a strong desire to kick your butt. -- So that's a false argument. Because you're not holding _me _to that standard."

Kenshin blinked at him. Sounding almost bemused, if anyone in that black of a mood could be described with that emotion, he said, "I never thought I'd be getting a lecture on ethics from the Tenkan."

Soujiro snorted a laugh. If Kenshin could joke, Kenshin, he thought, was perhaps emerging from the depths of his black mood. "I never thought I'd have to _give _it. You're one of the best of us, Ken-nii. Even if you're an idealistic idiot most of the time, idealism works for you."

Kenshin shook his head slowly from side to side. "Soujiro-san, I ... thank you."

"Feh. Turn about's fair play. I owed you. And that's the second time you've offered your neck up to me, Ken-nii. I'll have you know that if you do it again I may just take your head."

"I thought you would," Kenshin said, honestly.

"It was tempting," Soujiro said, candidly. He reached a hand out, intending to clap Kenshin on the shoulder, and saying as he did, "but Carrie wouldn't speak to me for the rest of her life if I did. You realize that all we heard on the flight over here for eighteen hours was 'Kenshin this' and 'Kenshin that'. It'd break her heart if anything happened to you."

Kenshin stepped quickly away from Soujiro's attempt to touch him. "Souji-san ... I need to go. Tell Carrie ... tell Carrie ..." he trailed off, somewhat helplessly, and, after a long moment, said, "I need to go. Give this to Carrie."

Kenshin's hand whipped up and an object shot through the air to Soujiro. Soujiro caught it reflexively and found he was holding a sword. At first he thought it was Kenshin's sakabatou, but it was a different sword -- one with a fancy hilt and an elaborately enameled sheath.

"What?" Soujiro said, startled.

"Tell her it's an early birthday present. She'll need a sword someday." He smiled, a ghostly expression. "She's got a package coming from me too -- it should arrive in America in a few weeks. Hopefully she'll be out of the hospital by then, and home. But the sword ... was mine, too, a long time ago. I gave my sakabatou to Yahiko but found myself needing a sword afterwards, when I discovered what it meant to be an Immortal. _That _sword was given to me by a man named Iori, because I had saved his life as an infant. He was the son of the man who made my sword. Eventually the sakabatou came back to me, however, and I've had this in reserve ... Carrie should have it. It's a good sword for a lady. Though you might want to have the hilt and sheath changed out."

"This is worth a fortune. I know of the swordmaker you speak." Soujiro pulled the blade. He was unsurprised to find that the edge was also reversed on this katana. A cursory but experienced exam told him it was a very good blade despite the flashiness. "A hundred thousand, at least, Kenshin. Swords of this caliber ... and the jewels ... Gods, Kenshin, we can't accept this ..."

Kenshin smiled, a genuine smile. "It appraised at significantly more than that, Souji-san, because of the provenance. Though they do not know it was me, it can be proven that Iori gave the sword to the Hitokiri Battousai because he wrote it down in a journal and the journal still exists. And it's worth every penny if it keeps Carrie alive someday. Swords of that caliber are few and far between."

"I ..."

"Don't offend me by refusing it."

"Thank you," Soujiro said, simply. He hooked the sheath on his belt and it disappeared from view. "Where will you go, Ken-nii?"

Kenshin turned away again, then looked over his shoulder. Soujiro was struck by Kenshin's expression -- he looked lost, and terribly sad. "I don't know."

"How will we reach you, if we need you?"

Silence, from Kenshin. Then, quietly, he said, "As I said, I need to go. I do not trust myself to help _anyone _right now."

Kenshin left, then, hurrying away. Soujiro watched him go, struck again by how small Kenshin looked.

------------------

Kenshin wandered.

No responsibility, no family to place demands on him. Alone, he simply wandered.

From Tokyo he caught a ride on a cargo steamer, working for his passage. He knew that the crew found him eerily quiet and 'spooky' and he didn't really care. Once, he would have been intrigued by the multicultural and multinational lot of sailors ... but not now.

They didn't offer to continue his employment when the ship came into port in Australia. He didn't care.

From Australia he made his way to South America on a cruise ship where again he worked for his passage. This ship offered to keep him on -- his quiet demeanor and efficient abilities with a mop had made him popular with the ship's management. He unnerved the other employees but nobody could fault his behavior. He declined politely, and disembarked. There had been another Immortal among the passengers -- the woman had avoided him, and he her, but it was enough to convince himself that a cruise ship was not a place to avoid the rest of the Immortal world.

He traveled in no particular direction deliberately. By foot, by motorcycle, by bus and by horse, he covered both wild country and bustling cities. Purely by random chance, he found himself moving north. He crossed mountain ranges, waterless deserts and deep green jungles.

November saw him in Panama. He purchased an old pickup and started to drive with more purpose, northward, but slowly. There was no hurry. He traveled a few hours each day and stopped to talk to people. He was wandering, and he was alone.

By December, he was in northern Mexico.

He didn't think much, but time quieted the turmoil in his soul. He found that he was enjoying the sun on his face, the wind that tousled his hair as he traveled. The truck didn't have air conditioning, but it was winter and he often drove with the windows open.

He stopped often. Not since he had been in his twenties had he traveled with no responsibilities, worries, or goals. It was interesting to visit little mountain communities, seaside villas, and enormous cities. He spent a month in Mexico City, exploring, then two weeks on a remote desert beach where he sat and watched the waves roll in and the waves roll out.

He rescued a small crab from a pair of local boys who were being cruel, and he tried to toss it back into the surf -- but a gull swooped down and grabbed the crab out of the air when it was inches from the surface of the water. Somehow, this was a catalyst for the emotions in his heart and alone, that night, for the first time, he sat and he thought long and hard about who he was, what he wanted to be, and the meaning of _right, wrong, good, evil._

January found him crossing the US border at a tiny crossing in Arizona -- where he was amused to discover that the guards didn't even stop him to ask him for a passport, they just waved him through. With his red hair he supposed he'd pass for a Westerner -- or, at least, he didn't look Mexican.

He found the contrast between the third-world ambience of Mexico and the modernity of America jarring. There was a line on the border; south of it was poverty and north, wealth, and the transition between the two was immediate.

He had not been to this part of America in almost a century. The last time he'd been through Arizona, it had just become barely become a state and he had traveled on horseback with Kaoru. Now, he covered the same ground on smooth blacktop highways with wide shoulders and clearly marked road signs.

Randomly, he continued to drive. When the pickup threw a rod on a remote dirt road -- he established by trial and error that there were still remote dirt roads in Arizona -- he sold it for parts and purchased a Jeep in Phoenix that needed brake work and a clutch. He spent the next two weeks making the Jeep drivable, getting grease under his nails and scraping his knuckles. He had always liked working with his hands and fixing things was an extension of _cleaning _things.

February found him driving through San Francisco.

He didn't stop. He wasn't even sure where Soujiro, Carrie, and Akane lived and while he certainly could have figured it out he didn't really want to face their sympathy or concern.

Kenshin didn't have clothing for the winter. Cold drove him northwards, shivering, as the Jeep's heater struggled and sputtered. The thought of a warm hotel room at his destination -- and now, he did have an end to his travels in mind -- caused him to hurry. However, the heater completely quit in Oregon and, while a simple fix -- a valve had likely stuck, and when he briefly popped the hood, he discovered the part was easily accessible -- he found it more expedient to drive even more rapidly north. He had a destination suddenly in mind, and people.

__

Sano, he thought, _and Tomoe._

Or some incarnation thereof.

----------------------

It was dark at six PM, when Kenshin pulled into the dojo's parking lot. Snow sifted down from a velvety black sky, visible as drifting flakes under the street lights. He was glad he had made it before the bulk of the storm struck. Without a heater, his Jeep would be undriveable because the windshield would ice up.

Earlier, he had been by Richie's apartment. The apartment had been empty; he had tried to call Richie, then, only to discover that he had not paid his cell phone bill and his phone was disconnected. It had seemed simpler to swing by the dojo first, to see if Richie was there, before trying to sort of the problem with his phone.

There were lights on inside, shining through the frosted windows. Kenshin felt the buzz of another Immortal as he approached.

Richie was there, to his relief -- though he was the only Immortal present. And there was only one other person in the building; a boy, dark haired, slender, short, probably latino.

"Oh, you again," the boy said, as Kenshin entered. The child's tone was dismissive.

Kenshin had seen this kid before -- he had been the boy that had challenged Atsuko, who had thrown a punch at her, and whom he had so shamefully pulled his sword on, several months before. For the first time he gave him a good look, though.

The kid's _ki _was calmer now than it had been then -- it was a basic change in the core of his personality for the better -- but it was still definitely the aggressive, confident aura of a warrior. And it was flaring in response to seeing Kenshin enter. He was about twelve, Kenshin thought, but -- despite his lack of height -- he seemed far older.

Richie's eyes had lit up at his entrance, at odds with the boy's unfriendly greeting. With a broad grin and what sounded like relief in his voice he said, "Ken!"

"Good evening," Kenshin said, "Richie-san. And -- Daniel-san, was it?"

A scowl, from Daniel. "Yeah."

"Danny," Richie reached a hand out and tousled the kid's sweaty hair. The two of them had obviously been sparring; they stood in the middle of the practice matt, both holding bokken. Richie's shirt was tucked into his belt, baring a torso that had no scars or marks on it, but lots of tough muscle. Daniel's t-shirt was soaked through with sweat, sticking to his back.

It was the way the kid held the bokken that made Kenshin look up at his eyes. Daniel was relaxed in the way he held that wooden sword, and confident, as if he was willing and able to use it as a primary weapon. He was balanced, light on his feet, hands gripping the hilt with ease. Kenshin had seen that stance before, that body language, and that mix of wary mistrust and assertive confidence that wasn't -- entirely -- braggadocio.

Familiar brown eyes looked at him, with a familiar soul lurking behind them.

__

Yahiko, Kenshin realized, with a shocked thrill of recognition.

"Got a problem?" Danny demanded, obviously unhappy about Kenshin's scrutiny.

"N-no. I am very sorry, Danny-chan."

"You've been missing since August!" Richie put his bokken on a rack. "Danny, go hit the showers."

"Awwww ..." A whined protest.

"We've already gone a half hour over the time I promised you," Richie reached a hand out and ruffled Danny's hair again. "Kenshin's a friend I haven't seen since last summer."

"Some friend," Danny muttered, as he exited the dojo.

"Sorry." Richie watched as Danny disappeared into the shower area.

"Don't apologize for Danny, for he is correct to mistrust me," Kenshin frowned. He had made an enemy of the boy -- and he knew from long experience with Yahiko that his almost-son was slow to forgive, at best, and he had a stubborn temper. He said, after a moment's contemplation of just how difficult it might be to win Danny's trust if he was anything like Yahiko, "I had no right to pull a sword on him, that I didn't."

"The twerp tried to punch your wife." Richie snorted. "He had it coming. I will say that you taught him a lesson that day that I think he needed to learn, too."

"Perhaps."

"So," Richie said, after Danny was out of earshot, "the wandering samurai wanders my way. What brings you to Seacouver?"

Kenshin hesitated, then admitted, "I don't really know, Richie."

"Well," Richie shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot for a second, then reached in his pocket and pulled a key chain out. He gestured at the elevator. "I'm dojo sitting for Mac -- he's on a buying trip to Europe. Want to come up for a beer?"

"Sounds good," Kenshin said, surprised at just how good it felt to be talking to a familiar person. He had spent the last several months barely talking to anyone at all.

Upstairs, Richie handed him a Guinness from the back of the fridge and then flopped on Mac's couch. "So. Your family and your friends have all been pretty worried about you -- even your watcher called Joe. We figured you'd lost your head somewhere; Souji said you asked him to give you a hair cut just below the chin because you felt bad about killing some nimwit."

Kenshin sighed. "It might have been better if Soujiro _had _taken my head, Richie."

"Don't say that!"

Kenshin was simply silent for a long, long moment. Then he drained half the bottle of beer in one long gulp and said, "Richie, how are you doing?"

"Doing?" Richie blinked.

"Your life," Kenshin prompted.

"Umm. Okay, I guess." Richie hesitated, then said, "If you don't mind me asking, where have you _been_?"

"Wandering." Kenshin scratched his chin. He needed a shave, he realized -- he never grew much of a beard, but it had been two weeks, and the orange peach fuzz sprouting in irregular patches on his jaw was itchy. His hair, however, was growing out -- it was a currently an untidy mop, too long to slick back with gel and too short by a few inches yet to pull into a pony tail.

"That's a very informative answer."

"I just drove from Phoenix to here, non-stop," Kenshin offered.

Richie's eyebrows rose. "That's a bit of a drive."

"Heater on my jeep's busted," Kenshin elaborated, after a moment. "The weather report said there'd be storm. I wanted to beat it here before it started to snow."

"Oh." Richie considered that. "I can help you fix it."

"I know a bit about cars," Kenshin waved away the offer.

"Mm. I just closed on a condo, though. It's got a garage. Might be easier to work on it inside, out of the bad weather." Richie's offer was genuine. "Heater on a jeep's dead easy to get to, anyway."

"I think it's the valve."

"That, too."

Kenshin considered the offer. Before he could answer, Richie added, "You can pay me with the recipe for that french toast."

"French ..." vaguely, Kenshin remembered fixing breakfast for Richie, not so much because he'd wanted to do something nice for the young man but because he had been missing Atsuko so terribly much and it had been one of her favorite foods. "Yeah. I can give it to you. And congratulations on the condo."

Six months had dulled the pain, a bit, at Atsuko's loss. Sometime around Panama he had realized he no longer habitually thought, _Wait until I tell Atsuko about this ... "_this" being whatever had struck his fancy that he thought Atsuko would like. Instead, his thoughts had turned to, _Atusko would have liked this. _And mixed in with the "Atsuko likes" were "Kaoru likes" and even the occasional, _This reminds me of Tomoe_.

Atsuko was a part of his past now, and quietly, and with a great deal of grief and loneliness, he had accepted that.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"You looked like you were thinking dark thoughts there, for a second," Richie said, easily.

Kenshin nodded. "That I was. Richie --" he finished off the bottle of beer, "-- the boy, Danny. He's your friend?"

Richie gave Kenshin a surprised look, startled by the abrupt change in subject. "Yeah. He's a good kid. His folks are dead. He's being raised by a cousin -- who's an ass in all sorts of ways. I know he's got a bit of an edge to him, but there's potential there, I know there is. He reminds me of _me, _a bit."

"You're right, about his potential." Kenshin spun the empty bottle of beer between his fingers. "Is he planning on college?"

"He gets straight A's, believe it or not. And he's got scholarship potential as a wrestler. Probably, yes."

"Hmm. In what?"

"He wants to be a cop." Richie smiled faintly. "Which takes a surprising amount of college; I never realized that."

"And he'll be a very good one." Kenshin folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, beer bottle still dangling from two fingers. The alcohol was hitting his system and it felt good just to relax. "Richie, I'm not going to stay."

"My new condo has two bedrooms, if you wanted to crash for awhile. It would be no trouble," Richie said, sounding confused that Kenshin would come and then go so quickly. "Unless -- are you going home?"

"I'm not sure I really have a home, anymore." Kenshin closed his eyes. "I have an apartment, of course. But a home? I don't know."

"Your family misses you. They've been calling, wanting to know if we've seen you."

"My family." Kenshin's eyes opened again. "Who is calling?"

"A rather large assortment of people."

Kenshin didn't ask for more elaboration. He assumed that meant at least George Trevor and Ikuko, Akane, and perhaps a few others. "Richie, I truly do not trust myself anymore. I -- my sword's in my Jeep, you know. I won't even carry it around people I consider friends, that I won't."

"Kenshin?" Richie questioned. "What do you mean?"

"I'm afraid it will happen again." Kenshin bowed his head. The beer made it easier to confess, "Something in me is broken, Richie. The Quickenings I've taken ... have changed me. I know who I was, but I cannot find my way back. I've been wandering, but I wasn't lost in the real world -- I was, and am, lost in here."

He gestured at his head with one small, callused hand.

"I don't trust myself at all anymore. Not my reflexes, or my instincts, or my perceptions."

"Soujiro told us what happened," Richie said. He hesitated before adding, "Kenshin, I killed a man once simply because I didn't like his attitude."

Kenshin looked up, sharply, at Richie. Richie grimaced. "It was stupid, and wrong, and it keeps me up at night sometimes, and the fallout from it was hell and ended up hurting Mac, but there you have it: you're not the only person in the world who's done really stupid things."

He smiled, a bit, because he was remembering some of the _really stupid things _a certain rooster-headed warrior had done as well. Richie almost certain shared his past reincarnation's tendency to hit first, think next. And this time around, Richie was a heck of a lot better with a sword. And he was simply in a better place. He wasn't in trouble with the law. Far from being a penniless brawler, he had just purchased his own home. He had good jobs -- as a mechanic, Kenshin was given to understand, and as a martial arts instructor on the side, for Mac. Richie had done very well for himself. And he would continue to do well for himself.

"What's that smile about?" Richie challenged, both curious and a little worried.

"I am very sorry, Richie. It is just that you remind me of someone I knew a long time ago." Kenshin set his beer bottle down on the floor at his feet and then leaned back against the couch cushions. The basic difference, however, was that Sano had needed him. Richie had his own circle of friends that Kenshin really wasn't a part of.

__

Mac is Richie's Kenshin, Kenshin realized. _He's taken my role._

Except that it wasn't any sort of "theft," and for all he knew, destiny had intended for Richie and Mac to come into each other's orbit while he remained a periodic comet, just occasionally swinging by for a visit. It hurt, though. Once Sano had been his closest friend -- his brother in arms, his trusted ally, his _family_. In the end, Sano had given his life to save Kaoru and the children. And even though Sano was back he ... wasn't. Sano was lost to Kenshin forever, he thought. This man was looking at him with Sano's eyes, with Sano's soul, and he was not Sano.

What part was there for him in Richie's life? Other than that of an occasional visitor. It wasn't the same. It would never be the _same_.

Gruffly, he said, "So how's Tammy doing?"

Richie shrugged. "She's okay, I guess."

"You're not dating her?" Kenshin was honestly disappointed by that.

"Nah. She and Adam hit it off." Richie snorted. "I should have seen that one coming a mile away ... what?"

Kenshin was startled by the anger that surged in his chest. _Adam_. He didn't like the man; didn't trust him; found his morals and his approach to life to be repugnant. All you had to do to tell that the man was a coward and a sneak was to stand in range of his ki for a bit. Kenshin would not be the slightest bit surprised to find that Adam had a long history of repugnant crimes.

"He's dating Tom... Tammy?"

"They just moved in together." Richie seemed oblivious to the _want to kill now _anger that was tingeing Kenshin's vision red. "They're cute together ... ohoh, look at you now! I _thought _you liked her."

Richie belatedly recognized Kenshin's anger and in response he was _teasing _him, likely because Kenshin knew his expression had to be murderous.

"He's just using her," Kenshin bit out. _Moved in together_. Tammy had deserved a fairy-tale wedding and the perfect wedding night, not shacking up with some ... with _Adam_!

"I highly doubt he's 'using her' -- Adam's a serial monogamist at worst, and we're all taking bets on when he's going to pop the question," Richie said, placatingly. "Look, Adam's an annoying ass, and I've got good reason to not like him much myself, but he's not a jerk. And he's fallen in love with Tammy, and she with him. If you were interested in the woman -- pardon me for saying this -- you should have come back sooner, Ken. 'Cause she's only got eyes for him, now."

"I cannot believe ... _that _... man loves her." Kenshin rose. He was outraged that Adam would dare.

"What is she to you, anyway?" Richie said. "You barely know her."

"... I know her," Kenshin answered distantly, not even aware that he had spoken. "from a long, long time ago."

He shook his head. His ears were buzzing, and he couldn't think clearly. The fog that had followed him on his wanderings, the _not thinking _haze, seemed to be closing in again. "Richie, I have to go. I'm sorry."

He didn't even hear Richie's answer as he headed for the elevator. He just left, hurrying out of the dojo and into the steadily falling snow.

----------------


	22. Chapter 22

Finding Adam was simple, even though he didn't know where Adam lived and there was no Adam Pierson in the phone book. Kenshin just headed for Joe's bar. As he had observed earlier, the two of them were good friends. There were no other Immortals there when he arrived, but he sat in his Jeep, stoically enduring the cold, as the snow fell harder and the wind blew and drifts began to form.

He kept his sword tucked to his chest, the blade between his knees. He knew, from painful experience, that he did not want to let the steel get so cold that his fingers would freeze to it in a fight.

Absently, he caressed the sheath with a cold-numbed hand. He had not drawn the sword, even to clean it, since Tokyo. Since he'd taken Ren Ito's head, in fact. He was afraid that if he pulled it he would find blood stains on it still. It was not like him to neglect his weapon, and yet, bitter bile rose when he thought of drawing the sword and caring for it.

He hated what it represented now.

__

I have failed.

Failed his oath to never kill.

Multiple times, he had killed. Each time, it had been easier.

__

Tomoe, Kenshin thought. _Tomoe, I loved you._

For Tomoe, he would kill one more time.

__

She'll never know, if I do this right, Kenshin thought. _She'll go on with her life, find someone who is decent and kind and caring, not a man who takes my superior's hands apart with pliers to torture information out of him._

He waited with the patience of the hitokiri he had been.

And finally, Adam arrived. The tires of his car -- a Land Rover -- crunched through the accumulating snow in the parking lot. It was past ten PM.

He felt a flare of real fear from Adam when Adam sensed him. Had Richie guessed, and warned him? Or was it just general cowardice; a paranoia about meeting other Immortals. Kenshin half expected the other man to leave, but he parked his car and stepped out and scanned the parking lot. Perhaps he was used to seeing friends here too.

Kenshin opened the Jeep door, and hung his sakabatou on his belt as he rose. The snow was ankle deep, and the wind that tugged at his thin jacket was icy cold. It was well below freezing, and he did not have winter clothing.

Well, he'd survive. This would be quick.

"Kenshin," Adam said, with obvious relief. "It's just you."

"Hai, it's me," Kenshin said, in Japanese. Adam spoke it, or had, all those decades ago. He called out, "I need to talk to you."

"Yeah, sure," Adam said. He reached into the back seat of his vehicle and retrieved his broadsword, attached it to his belt, and then approached Kenshin. The fear, and aggression, was fading from his ki, and he responded in fluent Japanese. "Richie called me -- he said you were upset about Tammy and me."

"Walk with me, a bit," Kenshin said.

"It's rather miserable weather for a stroll, Ken," Adam objected. "Why don't you come in for a drink?"

Kenshin glanced around. The parking lot was almost empty; there were only three other cars there. One would be Dawson's, and likely the other two were employees or very persistent barflies. The miserable weather was definitely discouraging customers.

"I can't let you do this," Kenshin said, quietly.

"Do what?"

Kenshin rested a hand on his sakabatou. His vision seemed fuzzy; he couldn't think. Yet, he knew: he could not let anything happen to Tomoe -- or Tammy.

Adam smirked, suddenly, "Jealous, Ken? Really. I thought you were better than that. She's chosen me freely of her own will. You've no right to interfere."

"No. She doesn't. She doesn't know what you are," Kenshin said. "Not like I do."

"I believe I've misjudged you -- again. This time for the worse." Adam shook his head. "Go home, Ken. I'm not going to discuss Tammy with you."

Kenshin saw _red_. The anger should have frightened him, but it didn't. Instead, he swept his sword from the sheath in a whistling arc that should have decapitated Adam in one strike. Except that Adam just wasn't _there_. Adam had been a _lot _more alert than he had seemed, Kenshin realized; he was leaping backwards.

"Woah!" Adam protested, drawing his sword in a smooth gesture. "Ken! Wouldn't it be more gentlemanly to settle this with a round of fisticuffs?"

Kenshin swung again, going for a kill, sword reversed. He was efficient, deadly, _quick_. It was the sort of move that had made him a hitokiri. Except ... Adam blocked it. His sakabatou rang against Adam's broadsword, loud against the near silent shusshhh of the falling snow and the crunch and squeak of their footsteps.

"I don't understand you," Adam protested, blocking a second strike that should have cleaved him from shoulder to waist with a blinding fast move. "Kenshin, why are you trying to kill me over a girl?"

"A long time ago she was my _wife_, and she is not meant for the likes of you!" Kenshin growled.

Anger flared in Adam's ki, replacing the confused fear. Kenshin ignored that. Tears trickled warm down his cheeks -- he ignored this, as well. Why was he crying? It didn't matter.

"You've taken a dark Quickening," Adam said, "You're _mad. _I thought you were strong enough to handle it -- scratch that, Ken, you _are _strong enough to handle this. You have to reach inside yourself and remember who you are. And why. _Why _did you refuse to kill, Kenshin? Have you forgotten?"

"Don't lecture me!" Kenshin tried again for Adam's head. The sakabatou struck Adam's broadsword so hard that his already cold-numbed fingers flared with agonizing pain. He nearly dropped the sword.

"Damnit!" Adam growled at him, "I don't have an onsen to fling you into, but I don't really need it! Kenshin! You're not a killer! I've read your file, I've talked to your friends, I've watched you in action! You're so much more than a hitokiri! Damnit, Kenshin!"

Again and again Kenshin tried to kill him. And again and again, the other man blocked his blows. Kenshin couldn't understand it -- he was a far better swordsman than Adam. Why was he having so much trouble? This should have been easy ... never had he felt more clumsy with a blade. He was slow and awkward, his hands reluctant to respond to his mind's command.

"Think, Ken! Why did you swear not to kill!"

__

Because I killed her by accident. I promised I would never kill again once the war was over, I promised her 

At that instant, Adam slipped on the icy ground, staggering backwards. Kenshin went for the kill, propelled by sheer instinct and training. With all his might, with every bit of strength he possessed, he slashed the sword at Adam's throat.

Adam's swept his broadsword up, blocking a blow he couldn't possibly have seen coming -- but he could guess at. He had known that Kenshin would take advantage of the opening. Fine folded Japanese steel representing the very best artistry of a bygone era rang against a much heavier, much older weapon.

With a splintering _spang _the sakabatou broke.

Thrown off balance by the lack of resistance to his strike when the sword broke, Kenshin staggered, and slid on the same patch of icy pavement that Adam had floundered on. In that instant he saw a flash of steel reflecting from the light of the bar but he didn't have time to react.

__

So it ends, he thought. Not a death from a more skilled swordsman -- just a more stubborn one, a luckier one.

The flat of the blade slapped into the side of his head, knocking him sprawling. Vision dimmed -- Adam's sword was at least twice the weight of a katana, and it carried the impact of a baseball bat.

He staggered to his knees in the snow, trying to get up. _Now I die_, he thought, even as he tried to think of a way to escape

A blade pressed against the back of his neck. "I could kill you, Ken."

"Then do it!" Kenshin said, defiantly, all the while feeling ... what did he feel? He wasn't sure.

"Do you want to die?" Adam sounded curious. It was a genuine, honest question. "You've got a choice, Battousai. Either you chose to live, and live as _yourself_, and remember _who _you are -- and that isn't going to be easy now -- or you can chose to give up. I'll be happy to take your head if you want me to."

__

Do I want to live? He asked himself.

"I promised ... I promised Tomoe ..."

"Uh-uh. Not because of who you promised. Do _you _want to live?" The broadsword was sharp against the back of his neck.

He was in his knees in the snow. Snow. It crunched under his fingers. He remembered a blizzard, long ago. Snow ... snow meant death to him, and blood, and explosions. Snow meant Tomoe's life flowing red across his hands, and the smell of slaughter in his nostrils. Snow meant grief and sorrow and a promise given long ago. He had not wanted to live then, but he had done so, because of her.

And now ...

"C'mon, Ken. Give me an answer. It's bloody cold out here."

... snow meant good times, too. He remembered snowball fights with Kaoru. He remembered making snow angels with the children he had raised. He remembered making snow cones with real snow and flavored syrup, with Atsuko. Snow ... he remembered snow on winter-naked cherry trees, every branch lined with white.

Tomorrow would be beautiful, the city covered in a blanket of winter, glittering and beautiful in the morning sunlight. The air would smell fresh and clear and crisply cold. Steam would rise from every patch of open water. It would be beautiful, and magical, and he didn't want to miss it.

"I want to see tomorrow," he said, quietly. "I _want to live_."

"Good," Adam said. The broadsword withdrew from the back of his neck. Fingers extended into his range of view -- he flinched back before he realized Adam was offering him a hand up.

"Why?" Kenshin said, stunned. "I was trying to kill you ... we are _not _friends."

A shrug. Adam yanked him to his feet. "We are now, I guess. C'mon, I'll buy you a drink."

He stared at Adam.

Adam grinned. "I'm probably an idiot for not taking your head, but I've read your file, and I rather like what's in it. With you on my side I'm much more likely to survive another five millenia. And anyway, Joe would kill me if I killed anybody in his parking lot."

"Five ..." Kenshin was taken aback by that casual comment. Except he didn't think it had been casual. _Five millenia_?

"My friends call me Methos," Adam clapped Kenshin on the shoulder. "Might as well tell you; Macleod or Richie would clue you in eventually anyway. They're terribly bad at keeping secrets."

"Five ... millenia. Methos. _You_?"

"Yes, me. Surprised?"

Kenshin was reeling. Methos. Methos was a _myth_. Methos was real, and standing before him, and he utterly believed what Adam had just told him.

"I still don't understand why you didn't take my head." Kenshin looked down at the shattered remnants of his sword. "Ad... Methos? ... why? I ... you hate me. And pardon me for saying this, but you've never struck me as the heroic type, that you haven't."

"I don't hate you," Adam said, quietly. "Not anymore. Kenshin, I forgive you ... you were a boy, an idealistic boy swept up into a vicious civil war. You were fifteen goddamn years old. A child. All these years I've been bearing a grudge on a boy who wasn't even old enough to shave. Me, I was damn well old enough to know what war's like. And eventually, you became a man, though -- a very good man."

"I ..."

You misjudged me, didn't you?" Adam -- _Methos, _Kenshin reminded himself -- said, voice curiously gentle. "Did it ever occur to you that what you see now is only what I want you to see? And heroism is a good way to lose one's head. I avoid it unless I have no other choice."

Kenshin blinked.

"We won't ever speak of this again, mind," Methos said. He guided Kenshin towards the bar with a hand on his back. "C'mon, I'll buy you a drink."

-----------------------

Much later, Kenshin sat alone by the waterfront in his Jeep -- he'd dug a blanket out from his gear and was wrapped in it.

__

He forgave me.

It was a shattering realization. Methos was one of his victims from the Bakumatsu -- Methos, and his two adopted sons. Methos, a wealthy foreigner who had supported the wrong side. Methos had forgiven him. As simple as that: he had sized Kenshin up, decided he had lived a worthy life, and forgiven him.

Yet, once upon a time, Methos had been frightened of Kenshin, and of the Immortal he feared Kenshin would become, that he had tried to kill him before his first death. He had been terrified that the Hitokiri Battousai would be an unstoppable headhunter and, out of sheer self preservation, had tried to take Kenshin out in advance.

Five thousand years of experience, and Methos had been wrong about Kenshin's destiny.

Kenshin gazed upwards at a morning sky -- hazy blue, with shreds of clouds a few hundred feet too high to be considered fog scudding low and grey across the sky. The storm had swept inland, and had left behind a damp, cold morning.

The sun shone brokenly on the water. Ice rimmed the rocks and hung in glistening icicles off the edge of a nearby wharf. Snow lay in drifts on the beach above the waterline. It was a gorgeous morning, as he had expected. Mornings like this ... the sheer joy of the beauty of the land ... it was good to be alive.

__

Tomoe would have loved this -- she would have sat with me, watching and appreciating. Kaoru would have run down play on the beach, nevermind the cold and the wind. And Atsuko ... Atsuko would have bitched about the cold while capturing the beauty of the snow and ice with her camera.

He sighed. Even without them, it was good simply to be alive.

The thing was, if Methos, with all his experience, could be wrong about the destiny of a boy -- Kenshin realized that he, too, could make mistakes. _Even if I think someone is irredeemably evil, if I chose to kill them, I run the risk of being wrong._

And yet ... Soujiro had pointed out that if he had taken Souji's head all those years ago, there would be a few hundred people alive now who Soujiro had killed.

Kenshin groaned. He honestly wasn't sure what to think. It was all very complicated. Maybe there simply wasn't one right answer to the question, _Is it ever okay to kill?_

He was still sitting in the car, watching the tide go out, and gulls circle, when someone knocked on the window. He jumped in surprise -- he'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't sensed anyone approach.

Tammy's face peered through the frost-rimed passenger side window. He popped the door lock and then leaned across the seat and opened the door. Tammy slid in, "Brr! It's cold out there."

"I'm sorry, my heater's broken." Kenshin handed her the blanket and she huddled under it in the passenger seat. "How did you find me?"

"Trial and error," she said, with a smile. "I figured you might be in this part of town, though -- you seem to be the type to look at pretty things and brood."

She was teasing him. That surprised him, because he hadn't remembered her having much of a sense of humor. Gentle, loving, kind, yes. But not teasing. What had changed to give her the confidence to engage in a bit of friendly banter?

"Kenshin, Adam told me what happened."

"All of it?"

"I know he's like you, yes," she said and studied his face.

"Do you love him?"

"Yes."

"Good." Kenshin leaned back in the seat, staring up at the sky through the driver's side window. The sunlight was too thin to be warm, exactly, but he could feel it on his scarred cheek. "Tammy, I misjudged him."

"Everyone makes mistakes."

"Why are you here?" He turned his face to look at her. "I'm very glad to see you, please do not misunderstand, however I am surprised you looked so hard for me."

"Why did you react so strongly to Adam dating me?" Her voice was soft, but very curious.

He couldn't answer that, so he didn't. "I would prefer not to say."

"I can guess," she smiled faintly. "You knew me in a past life, didn't you?"

"I ... yes." He confessed, hanging his head. "I did."

"You loved me in that life, did you not?" she reached a hand out, slipped her fingers under his chin and lifted his face up so that he would look her in the eye. "Kenshin, who was I to you?"

He folded his fingers around hers. He couldn't lie, not to her. "We were married, a very long time ago, for a very brief period of time. I loved you with all my heart and I accidentally killed you. Most of who I am today, I can trace back to you. You, in that past life, set me on a path that changed my destiny. Your name in that past life was Tomoe."

She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his lips. It was sad, wistful, and very chaste. He reached up and brushed a hand against her cheek but didn't embrace her, and when she pulled back she said quietly, "I'm not her, though, am I?"

"No." He was surprised to find that there had been no desire to extend the kiss, no real attraction. He cared about her, but not that way. And he was okay now with the idea of her and Adam.

She exhaled sharply, "I'm sorry, you know. That I can't be her."

"Don't be." He smiled faintly. "Live your life, Tammy-dono. If Adam is a part of it -- if you love him -- share that life with him. And do not worry about this one."

"But I _like _you, and I will worry about you."

"Mmm. Then ..." Kenshin rested a hand on her arm. "... perhaps it is comforting to know that people care. Because people who care, worry. But please believe me when I say that I think things are going to be okay now, that they will."

She hugged him, awkwardly, because of the Jeep's bucket seats. "Kenshin, I have to get to work. But do you still have my number?"

"Aa, I do."

She reached for the car door and pushed it open. "If you ever need anybody to talk to, give me a call."

He started to tell her that he was fine, and that he didn't need her help. But then he bowed his head, and his hair -- grown out to a shaggy inches long mop in the months since Atsuko had died -- fell forward into his eyes. He brushed his bangs back and said, "Tammy, I'll call you -- just to talk to you as a friend. If that's okay."

Her smile was blinding. "That's okay, too. We can be friends. Adam's not the jealous type."

__

Friends.

He watched her walk away with a smile on his lips.

He had friends -- he had people he could count on. Some he barely knew; others, he'd known a mortal lifetime. He owed them all some calls, some visits. And he would do that. It was high time that things got back to normal for him.

He stared out at the ocean for a moment longer. He still wasn't sure how he felt about killing other Immortals. But maybe, he decided, it was good that he was so torn. He never wanted it to be _easy_. Kenshin closed his eyes. His goal, he decided, would be to _never kill again_. But it would not be an unshakeable vow anymore. He would simply have to make the best decisions he could and trust in his own instincts.

He blinked, as realization struck: he trusted himself again. Some how, some way, he had come back to himself. There was nothing left of Marshall's Quickening. All that remained was Kenshin's own soul. He could feel the difference.

__

It's over, he thought. _I can smile again, and laugh again, and be me again. I've found my way back to who I am. Somehow._

"Atsuko," he said, "if you're listening ... I'm going to move on with my life now."

She was listening. He knew it, somehow, even though she didn't acknowledge his words in any way.

"You can move on too."

Nothing. But he knew she heard.

"And ... I love you."

Silence. And now he felt that she was gone, her presence fading away.

"Sayonara," he whispered. "And I'll watch for you."


End file.
